The Death of My Parents in the Village by Dragoslava Barzut

The funeral meal—all of the relatives and neighbors have come.
I don’t know any of them.
The death of my parents in the village, it played out long ago in the future.
I cannot summon the memory. I cannot cry.
After a long and difficult illness, the death of their eight-hour workday
occurred unsurprisingly, inconspicuously.
The news posted only on the community Facebook page:
The couple died, leaving behind “just three more years to retirement.”
Funeral paid for by the daughter, a lesbian.

In the last few years they maintained a Slovenian-made kitchen and a leather living-room suite,
but not contact.
They strung rosaries of their working years, they died of humiliation, over me.
Because I don’t have a steady job, a husband, and three kids—
the holy trinity, with no room for accommodations.

They built a big family house.
Not with heads, not with limbs, not with whole bodies, but with their own t e n fingers.
They built a house greater than their socialist dreams,
greater than brothers and sisters,
than comrades, drugovi i drugarice,
a house that will be the mausoleum of our re-jiggered lives.

The death of my parents in the village, it played out long ago in my childhood,
the entirety of which fit into the gift pack that came from Mother’s workplace on New Year’s.
Into the inflated foil pillow of large, sticky peanut puffs
and the bar of crispy rice chocolate.
The most delicious present of the nineties.

The funeral meal—all of the relatives and neighbors have come.
I don’t know any of them.
The death of my parents in the village, it played out long ago in the future.
I cannot summon the memory. I cannot cry.
After a long and difficult illness, the death of their eight-hour workday
occurred unsurprisingly, inconspicuously.
The news posted only on the community Facebook page:
The couple died, leaving behind “just three more years to retirement.”
Funeral paid for by the daughter, a lesbian.

In the last few years they maintained a Slovenian-made kitchen and a leather living-room suite,
but not contact.
They strung rosaries of their working years, they died of humiliation, over me.
Because I don’t have a steady job, a husband, and three kids—
the holy trinity, with no room for accommodations.

They built a big family house.
Not with heads, not with limbs, not with whole bodies, but with their own t e n fingers.
They built a house greater than their socialist dreams,
greater than brothers and sisters,
than comrades, drugovi i drugarice,
a house that will be the mausoleum of our re-jiggered lives.

The death of my parents in the village, it played out long ago in my childhood,
the entirety of which fit into the gift pack that came from Mother’s workplace on New Year’s.
Into the inflated foil pillow of large, sticky peanut puffs
and the bar of crispy rice chocolate.
The most delicious present of the nineties.

Smrt roditelja na selu

Na daće je došla sva rodbina i komšije.
Ne poznajem nikoga od njih.
Smrt roditelja na selu, odigrala se davno u budućnosti.
Ne mogu da je evociram. Ne mogu da zaplačem.
Posle duge i teške bolesti, smrt njihovog osmočasovnog radnog vremena,
nastupila je očekivano, neprimetno.
Vest je prenela samo lokalna fejsbuk stranica:
Umrla porodica, za sobom ostavivši „još tri godine do penzije“
Sahranu finansirala ćerka, lezbejka.

U poslednje vreme održavali su slovenačku kuhinju i kožnu garnituru
ne i kontakte.
Nizali brojanice od godina staža, umirali besponosni, na mene.
Jer nemam stalan posao, muža i troje dece,
Sveto trojstvo u koje stan nije stao.

Sagradili su porodičnu kuću,
Ne glavom, ne udovima, ne celim telom već sa svojih d e s e t prstiju.
Sagradili su kuću veću od njihovih snova
veću od braće i sestara
drugova i drugarica
kuću koja će biti grobnica naših remontiranih života.

Smrt roditelja na selu odigrala se davno u detinjstvu
koje je čitavo stalo u mamim novogodišnji paketić
U naduvano pakovanje lepljivog i velikog smokija
I čokaladu od riže.
Najukusniji poklon devedesetih.