Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

My Family’s Resting Place

I left the post about Hulubești for last because it was the hardest one for me to write.

The most important reason I came to Romania was to bring the temporary cross number one to Hulubești, which was on Cosmin’s grave here in Arizona. I was a man on a mission.

In the first few days after Cosmin’s passing (until the temporary cross number two arrived, which we had ordered from Amazon, made of treated wood, with a picture and his name, to last us at least a year), we needed a cross for the funeral and for the grave. Amanda, the niece, dressed a metal cross in a kind of wicker and decorated it with artificial ferns. The priest blessed it and, when it came to the question of my departure to Romania, I didn’t hesitate, I took it with me. I also took some artificial flowers (forgive me, Dad, but since no one takes care of the grave, it would have looked ugly with dried natural ones).

As I said, the first trip was to Hulubești, on the same day I landed. I landed at 0:30, left for Hulubești with my Uber driver from last year at around 10:30 (the driver wasn’t even doing Uber anymore, but he was happy when he heard me. He knew why, and he took a day off to accompany me).

I placed Cosmin next to his most beloved grandparents (“from this planet,” as he used to say) and, suddenly, I felt a wave of inner peace that flooded my soul. This peace was like a lighted guide for me throughout the days that followed. I felt blessed and relaxed. It was as if all the worries were somehow lifted from my shoulders. It was an incredible spiritual experience. I couldn’t believe it, but the days that followed were like a vacation.

Peace and contentment accompanied me all the way to Phoenix. Even the long way home – two flights and layovers, almost 23 hours – was bearable. I also passed through customs without any problems, and the officers were surprisingly nice and helpful. Yet an hour later, the magic was broken. Only the memories remained.

In the churchyard, the grave looked very neglected: all of our cleaning and plantings from last year, with Anca and Mișu, were gone. The weeds had not only won, they had brought reinforcements. It was a mass of weeds and grass, as if they had been purposely planted. And the thuja bushes, which my father had planted after my Mom’s passing, had grown into a huge hedge around the cemetery plot.

The grave and the monuments and the iron fence were made at the beginning of the 20th century, and yet, they never looked so bad (or maybe they did when the communists were in power).

I did what I could, which was very little, due to the lack of time. I waited for Anca to come back from wherever she was, then she waited for me to come back from wherever I was, and finally, sometime during last week, armed with gardening tools, we took the road to Hulubești again to try to clean up a bit and make it look pretty.

Anca began attending to the intricacies and delicate aspects of the task, carefully removing any weeds and unruly vines. Meanwhile, I took on the task of trimming numerous branches from the thuja plants. After approximately an hour, to my surprise, I noticed Anca meticulously cleaning the edges of the curb with a small brush.

“What’s up, dear? Were you feeling bored? Did you manage to finish that crazy vine?”

“You just don’t get it! Being a man, you have no idea how important the little details are.” She took the time to brush around the curb super meticulously.

After another hour, the grave started to look really good. The vines and weeds were completely gone, making it easy to open and close the gate. We were thrilled because Anca would be the next person visiting the grave in the winter, and we wanted to ensure she could access it without difficulty. Just as I was about to suggest leaving (I was famished), she surprised me by pulling out a bag filled with delicious treats. We leisurely enjoyed a spontaneous picnic in the churchyard. We sat there, taking our time, reflecting and giving thanks to God that we were able to accomplish the task and arrive safely. It was truly a moment of joy and gratitude.

I bid farewell to my dear ones with a contented heart, embarking on the journey back to Bucharest. Excitement filled my soul as I anticipated indulging in a delightful bowl of tripe soup at Hanul Berarilor, where dear friends awaited. And thus, the threads of stories intertwined, weaving a tapestry of joyous moments.

See you next year!

Instead of a Conclusion

Anyone who has experienced the unimaginable pain of losing a loved one understands the deep and indescribable sorrow that accompanies such a loss, and when Cosmin also departed from this earth, it felt as if my entire existence had been irreparably shattered. The weight of these losses is something that only those who have experienced it can truly comprehend.

For someone who has lost a child, the pain is something that cannot be truly understood. It is a pain that never heals. It is a pain that gnaws at your soul and leaves emotional scars that will never go away.

During these difficult times, there may not be a prescribed set of rules or guidelines for how friends should behave. However, my friends demonstrated an innate understanding of my needs. In the immediate aftermath of losing Cosmin, they provided unwavering support, even from afar, and were available at any hour. It felt as though time zones ceased to exist. Upon reuniting with them nearly a year later, a simple additional handshake or heartfelt hug was all I required.

In the following three weeks, they generously took turns showering me with care, like a kind of healing dance. They nourished me, drove me around, and took me on some great trips. They even set aside time from their jobs and loved ones, solely for my sake.

True friends are always there for you, offering support and understanding without passing judgment, regardless of the circumstances. They provide a safe harbor where you can be yourself, knowing that they will always stand by your side, no matter what challenges you may face.

My Friends, Thank You!

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Footnotes

This post being about Romania, I will not talk about the North American support group, the other wonderful group of friends who helped me get through this first year.

Hulubești – a small village in the county of Dâmbovița, 65 miles away from Bucharest (East-North-East), into the hills, where my father (and my paternal ancestors) are from.