This is so rich. The "I know, I know, but still" says it all, in a way.
But I also wonder why that hospitality that we extend to others/strangers depends on the fact that they are "family." That feeling of wanting to claim your kin in that tiny graveyard is a lovely moment in its yearning, but also in its humanity. Our official connections blurred or erased, we can still choose kinship.
Like you, we have no graves of direct ancestors left, but just walking in the same yard of the house where my ancestors lived was more meaningful to me. Beautifully written.
Not erased in Sokolí , just now part of the land that your feet stood on. They walked the same roads and paths that you did, and you were in the same houses they were in. So, you have to use a bit more of the Czech imagination. They were not a marker on the land, they are actually THE land. Glad you got as close as you could.
This is so rich. The "I know, I know, but still" says it all, in a way.
But I also wonder why that hospitality that we extend to others/strangers depends on the fact that they are "family." That feeling of wanting to claim your kin in that tiny graveyard is a lovely moment in its yearning, but also in its humanity. Our official connections blurred or erased, we can still choose kinship.
Like you, we have no graves of direct ancestors left, but just walking in the same yard of the house where my ancestors lived was more meaningful to me. Beautifully written.
Not erased in Sokolí , just now part of the land that your feet stood on. They walked the same roads and paths that you did, and you were in the same houses they were in. So, you have to use a bit more of the Czech imagination. They were not a marker on the land, they are actually THE land. Glad you got as close as you could.