Annette is a violin teacher and a student of mine. The CDs she gave me yesterday are exquisite. They bring back memories of my father. He was my antagonist, and I was an exceptionally nasty daughter. Didn’t even know how much I loved him while he lived.
I know this is a blog about dead languages and how to crack them, but I just feel like posting this. When I listen to music he loved, I tend to cry.
My dad was a writer by heart who supported us by being an engineer. He published several books, one of which is titled “Camping in the Living Room.” When Jude and I bought our tent, we pitched it in our living room and camped there for a couple of days – in memory of Christo. Man, I wish he knew how much I love him.
After he died, my mom found some poetry in his secret drawer. One of the poems reads:
Shte te dochakam, kusno moe lyato,/ranna esen, utrinna duga,/shte te dochakam, no sila ne ostana/v moyata protegnata ruka…
This poem breaks my heart. I’ve made several futile attempts at translating it.
I am by far tougher than Christo.