The memories of my early childhood are like scattered, partially lost pieces of a huge mosaic. I am only five, and instead of sleeping late like other kids would do, I don't want to stay in bed, don't want to miss the mystery, the beauty of the world's awakening. My older brother and cousins are up already and drag their bare feet on the wooden floor. I still can vividly picture that floor- old, caved in, coated with brown paint a thousand times, the floor in my Grandma's house.
The memories of my childhood are my Grandma. It's the smell of the bread, she baked every morning. My memories are the feelings of happiness, peace, kindness and care. It's the perception of the surrounding world through love I was given and love I was taught.
My grandmother usually got up very early. As a child I used to think that after she woke up, she was pulling the sleepyhead rooster to make him announce to the world a new day started.
Grandma's morning began in the kitchen. I could hear fussy noises of knives banging on the table, rumbling pots. Everything that came from that kitchen was magically tasty and always delicious, because my Grandma used a secret recipe for everything. The secret recipe is called "Love". I remember her soft, warm hands, her smiling with rays of wrinkles in the corner of her eyes, her quiet gentle laughter and love.
We used to go to my grandma's every summer. For me, it was the best time of the year. The summer at Grandparents' meant to be away from the city, lost in the steppes and endless fields, welcomed us with its friendly people who knew streets straight and parallel, lined up with nice-looking little houses.