Family.

Once I met a guy who had an interesting tattoo at his wrist. It was just a simple square. I preferred such small pieces of art to big, picture-like tattoos so I was curious what this square meant for him. He told me it was about his family, there were four of them: his parents, his brother and him. And all of them were very close to each other; they were connected very tight, just like those four corners of the little square on his wrist.  I remember thinking at that moment that I can say the same about my family. However far from each other we can be, we are always in a distance of just one word from each other, we always feel each other. Our square is indestructible.

 They are always around, they look at me from every drop of the fall rain on the window glass, I hear their voices and their laugh, and I know exactly what they would approve and what they would doubt about. I read my mom’s letters and I hear my own voice and my own intonations. Deep inside in emotions and feelings, in perceptions and fears we are so alike that sometimes it surprises me. I hear that young, sensitive and romantic girl in her words, in her opinions. I see myself in her eyes. And she is still my mom, the wisest and the kindest person in the world for me. But sitting in front of the computer screen next to my father and telling me with enthusiasm about a big, luminous deer they bought for Christmas, she is a little, cute girl. A girl that my dad takes care about.

My dad is inseparable from my mom, every time they have to separate even for a few days, they both suffer. They showed to me what love is (or whatever you would call that strong connection between two people). Though, I am still not sure if this phenomenon exits somewhere else. I just can’t imagine them being not together. They are a Family, two who became one for me. I remember most of my friends saying that they are close either to their moms or to theirs dads. I was never able to say who I am closer to. My dad is always like mom to me as well, listening to my love stories and sharing emotions with me, being touched by dimples in my cheeks and calling me with sweet Ukrainian word “donja” (which means “daughter”). He was singing to me and my sister the song of Vertinski “My daughters” about the happiest father who got two daughters and adored them for the whole his life.

My sister. She was the first child, she was quiet and very responsible. In my family we used to think that she is more alike my dad – smart, erudite and skeptical person with a lot of social skills. Every time I listen to her, I can’t stop myself from admiring how deep and acute her every thought is. I need about an hour to phrase my ideas and opinions about the movie we both saw while she would tell me a lot of neat remarks right away. But she is the same young, emotional girl, who cries over the same stories as I do, who understands my every look, who doesn’t need any additional explanations when I tell her my secrets. She understands everything I want to say right away. Because she is me as well, there is certain part of my and her personalities where we are the one. She is not just my sister and my best friend. She is someone more, someone who has invisible but vast connection to me, she inspires me every day. I know what she feels, I know what she thinks, we talk with the same intonations and pauses, we say the same words, and when we smile you can’t tell us from each other. Nobody can break us when we are together.

My little square, my happiness and my life. My “Italian” family, how my dad used to call crazy and boisterous us. Something that makes me win, something that makes me believe in the world, something that saves my life every day. I know for sure that even if the whole world will play against me, they will fight on my side, however dark it would be.