Yesterday was Archangel's Day, the second great celebration of this month.
Out of eight friends and relatives whom I've been congratulating on the holiday for an unknown number of years, this year I have only one name left. The rest are either not here and where they are not celebrating, or they had a sweet break from guests during the corona so they extended it (the break) to this year as well.
Last week it was Đurđić.
I called my cousin from Futog to congratulate her and she was unusually happy. He says, she thought I forgot, it's already seven in the evening, where am I until now, are we all right.
My excuse is that I called this late on purpose because I didn't want to disturb her in the preparation - she is a great housewife, she has dishes for two large tables in both rooms, so I waited for a while when she should have finished everything.
Once upon a time, he tells me, I could call around lunchtime because everything was over by then. This year - symbolic. But don't get me wrong, everything is there as it should be, although only basic and symbolic. And a little bit, one tray, one pan.
And he doesn't even need more, what to throw away, he says. She only had a few guests, and those who came to her must be careful about what they eat and how much.
Then he started to tell me who all was and why he didn't come. Some are sick and can't get out of bed, that's justified. But he doesn't understand the healthy ones because he hates them. One is in some trouble, the other hates starting the car because he found a parking lot in front of the house, the third is afraid that he won't be able to keep quiet if someone mentions Vučić.
But it's still not their fault. The world has changed, he says.
She hoped to see her friend from Mitrovica. From Kosovo, not from Sremska, he emphasizes. She was sure that she would come not alone with her husband, but also with her two grandchildren to show them off.
When that, they couldn't. They are afraid.
What if something happens and the borders are closed and they find themselves in the middle of the road. Where are they going with their grandchildren? And it is not known what will happen to the plates. What if the militia stops them and says that theirs are no longer valid, that they are not allowed to drive any further? And both daughter and son told them to move as little as possible, only when they have to. Is she angry, her friend asked her. Poor people, he says.
He hears that the others celebrating had few guests. And that is sad, glory should be celebration and not just to say that it is glory.
And he asks: tell me, you are a journalist, you know, when will this stop? When will it be like it used to be? So the rooms are full of guests, then the tables are full, you have nowhere to put your fork down, then the concert, then the fun, then everything is nice and bright again?
