The crying specie is me; the intrigued one is my cousin Carmen. She was already used to my “festivals,” and I think her expression was trying to say there was nothing she could do about it. The photo was taken in Lipova, my birthplace. At the time, she lived there too, with her parents and grandparents.
Given that we were together, there could have been two possible reasons for my outburst. One might have been that I didn’t get one of the cookie boxes from her grandmother. She had an entire collection of vintage cookie tins, many of them hand-painted, and I was crazy about them. Each one represented a magical world to me. Every time we visited, I would go straight to the kitchen, tilt my head back, and fix my gaze on those boxes. My mother, however, was quick—she would grab my hand and drag me out of the kitchen, occasionally reminding me that I should be ashamed of my behaviour. I couldn’t have cared less; I wanted the box. My response to her scolding was always “PUY!”—my way of saying that if I couldn’t have one of those boxes, she should buy me one. I simply couldn’t pronounce “buy.”
The other—and most probable—reason, considering the size of my open mouth, was Uncle Emil. He was Carmen’s step-grandfather: a kind man who adored her and, by extension—because I was her cousin—adored me too. I can still recall the warmth of his exuberance whenever I entered his room. Yet, for reasons no one could understand, my reaction upon seeing him was always the same: loud, desperate crying.
This became a family legend. Everyone talked about it, but no one could explain it. Years later, when I could put it into words, I did. Uncle Emil was ill, and I could sense it. I was terrified by the feeling of his sickness. On that day, I carried my crying and my despair with me into the park.