I remember how my grandmother gave me an old basket and said: "Be careful, don't crush them!" And every time I crushed at least one. And then we ate it right there - with salt and bread.
I felt good. I sat among the bushes, the sun shining in my eyes, and my grandmother sang something of her own. I helped her make sauce, cut vegetables and wipe the juice off the table.
These are memories that warm me even in winter. They smell of greenery, sun, love. I dream of one day bringing someone there...
To show where I come from. How I laughed, how I learned to cook borscht, how I ran barefoot through the beds. And, perhaps, this person is already reading this text... And wants to know what I look like in an embroidered shirt with a tomato in my hand.