My love didn't speak ezòpinė kalba*. She was direct and stubborn in her decisions but I had changed her. She had become opened and softened. In a country where lying was necessarily the way of life or alternatively silence (not to say) was preferable to lying, she had began to trust me.
Even though she frequently had relapses she trusted me now.
She had prepared her favorite dish, šaltibarščiai. She wanted me to try it. She wanted to convey me all the love she had for things.
Love is rooted in concrete things. Love is not born from commitment, but from unexpected. It starts from afar and continues in all possible directions towards a destination you will never know.
She looked at me eating šaltibarščiai. She had an indecipherable look, sluggishness in her eyes however. Next to her, on the table, stood a copy of her favorite newspaper: Žmonės.
A similar scene might make one think of a silly woman but she was not.
She had deep feelings beneath the surface. A sensitive feminine intelligence. Almost a sixth sense.
This sixth sense was amending me, adapting and adjusting me. I became conscious she was part of it all, she was an extension of the climate, an augmentation of that land, which I moved to.
*A disguised language, allegory, narrative used by Lithuanian artists to mask their ideas during the Soviet occupation
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