Time Passage

Sudjuradj/ Sipan/Croatia

The warm September sun reached the edge of the horizon, painting the stone buildings of the Sudjuradj village a soft honey color. Returning to this small island called Šipan in Croatia, where I spent endless summers of my youth, simultaneously filled me with excitement and dread.

I stood on the starboard side of the ferry, anxiously scanning the shore, searching for my parents. As we neared the landing, the diesel engine groaned louder.

 The pandemic had insinuated itself into our lives, delaying my visit by two years, which, for my ninety-year-old parents, represents an eternity. While my parents live in Slovenia, they spend their time from May through October on this jewel of an island in the neighboring country of Croatia. They built a small summer cottage when my brother and I were still young, kicking a soccer ball in the village square with the local kids. I now live in California, and with the entire world in lockdown, I haven’t been able to be with my parents when they needed me most. The isolation and the fear of the unknown plunged my mother into a debilitating depression. My father, always my anchor, had been diagnosed with dementia since my last visit. For the first time in many years, they haven't been able to migrate to the island for the summer, uncertain if they would be able to return.

 Finally, things relaxed in the spring of 2021. As soon as my parents received COVID-19 vaccinations and a blessing from their doctor, my brother packed up the car and drove them to their island.

International travel was still on hold. Time crawled. Finally, I received my second COVID vaccination and the green light to book my flight. I was going home to see my parents at last.

When I arrived at the Reno, Nevada airport, the line stretched long. Reaching the counter with no time to spare, I handed my negative COVID-19 test results and my passport to a stern-looking agent at the airline counter. She informed me I needed additional health documents: one to pass through London, England, the other to fly to Vienna, Austria. “Do you have the forms?” I asked. “You need to download an app and fill them out online,” she answered briskly, and turned to the next passenger behind me.

The fields and the mountains behind my childhood home

That set the tone for the next twenty-four hours of missed flights, endless lines, and anxious eyes peering above face masks into the confines of the crowded airplane. The world was ready to travel again; I just wanted to fly home. When I finally landed at Vienna airport over twelve hours after I was supposed to, I learned that my luggage was lost in the bowels of the Heathrow Airport and would stay there for the remainder of my trip. On a five-hour train ride from Vienna to Bled station in Slovenia, mountains, trees, churches, and cows streamed by until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I was awoken by the train whistle announcing the arrival at a station a mile away from my childhood home.

My journey wasn’t over yet.

“Aren’t you going to stay to rest?” my brother pleaded with me when he picked me up. “I have to go see them,” I said. He understood and handed me the keys to his car. At home, I quickly showered and took off on the ten-hour drive toward the ancient fortress city of Dubrovnik. Stopping only once for gas and a pee break, I caught the island ferry at the port of Dubrovnik in the nick of time.  

For the next hour, I stood on the upper deck, holding tight onto the railing until we rounded the lighthouse point and entered the bay. I imagined my parents hurrying down the many steps to meet me. In my mind’s eye, I could see my father pacing back and forth on the old marble-stone dock, his hands folded behind his back, which now bends like the bow of an old fishing boat.

But something was wrong. I couldn’t see my parents on the landing. The expectation caused my heart to thump in my tightening throat, and droplets of cold sweat like tiny pearls collected on my upper lip. What if my father fell on the steep stairs leading toward the harbor? Perhaps my mother suffered another nervous breakdown? Maybe my father had another stroke? I am too late, too late, too late… The words reverberated through my entire body like the rumbling of the ferry’s engine. My parents always wait for the ship to come in, even if they are not expecting anyone.

The bay of Sudjuradj

Where were they?

I felt acid rising in my throat and wanted to jump off the ferry before it was even docked. The turbine engine revved and lurched into reverse and the captain expertly aligned the stern of the ferry with the shore. The deckhand threw the thick line to the outstretched arms of a man on the dock, who looped it to the cast iron bollard. I grabbed my handbag and ran, dodging passengers disembarking ahead of me.

I ran through the village across the ancient marble stones. The sea was to my right. Blue and white painted fishing boats were tied up, rust-colored fishing nets piled in their bows.

The path leading to the house

The narrow stone path led me up the hill. Bougainvillea branches thick with magenta blossoms hung off the walls on both sides of the path. I took the right turn onto an even smaller and narrower trail winding among the olive trees — and stopped.

Before me stood a small white marble stone house with a red terracotta roof. The green shutters of the two tiny windows on the east side of the house were closed. It appeared as if no one lived there anymore. I let go of the handle of my bag and wrapped my arms around my trembling body.

Our cottage

The house used to look so much bigger when I was a child. There were several olive trees surrounding it. Some of the larger branches hung over the roof, threatening to swallow it up. They needed to be cut. The grape vine, loaded with dark purple grapes that drooped off it like oversized jewels, was shading the terrace. Waist-high purple flowers lined the remaining part of the path leading up to our tiny cottage. The sweet scent of lavender permeated the air and my body vibrated with the shrill of the cicada’s mating song.

 My mother rounded the corner, carrying a green watering can. Startled, she looked up at me, pressed her left hand tightly against her mouth and dropped the can. The water spilled onto the stone path and disappeared through the cracks. I held my breath and waited for her words to come.

“Oh, Jesus, Marija!” Mother’s call for help penetrated the silence and my father, all bent over, came shuffling from the terrace. He looked frightened, like a little bird. They both stood there, holding hands, staring at me as if I were an apparition.

Then my father turned to my mother and asked, “Who is this?” My breath left me when he added, “What is she doing here?” His raspy voice filled the air like shattered glass.

My legs were wobbly. I lowered myself slowly onto the stone wall behind me. My mother gently touched his arm, “It’s your daughter,” she whispered into his ear. He stepped back, looking confused. The air was thick with pain. My throat tightened even more. I was desperately trying to hide my shock at seeing both of my parents so frail.

“We weren't expecting you until tomorrow!” The tears welled up in the corners of my mother’s eyes and she looked so vulnerable, fragile, feeling sorry she mixed up the days of my arrival, but at that moment, as I sat on the ancient wall, trying to find my breath and my words, no one was sorrier than I. Sorry for all the years of my absence, sorry for the lost time never to be regained.

The sun setting behind the neighboring island

 I rose, made a step in their direction to erase the distance, erase the years since we last hugged. Slowly, I walked toward my father, afraid that if I moved too fast, he would topple backward or fly away. I stood before him and he, bent over like a weeping willow, leaned over to stroke my cheek. His milky blue eyes stared into mine for what seemed like forever. His bony fingers trailed down my cheek, then paused at my lips, as if a blind man was reading my face by Braille. Finally, my father whispered my name, and it floated in my direction on the soft evening breeze rising from the sea.

In the morning, the rumble of the ferry’s diesel engine woke up the village. We sat on the terrace, just the three of us, drinking coffee, and together we watched the sun rising out of the Adriatic Sea. Not all was lost, not yet. I was home.

My dad and I sitting on the ancient stone wall of the church overlooking island Sipan. My beloved father departed on September 7, 2022, a month after he fell on the steps leading from the cottage to the harbor and suffered a broken hip.