VILLAGE  

Late May and early 90s, early morning. My grandmother and I pile into my grandfather's blue Moskvich and head to the village for the summer. I'm sitting in the backseat, reading "Gone with the Wind." My grandmother teases my grandfather and laughs, and the car smells of warmth, gasoline, and old, rough car covers. Three months of sleeping until lunch, building shelters, collecting Colorado beetles, and evenings spent on a bench await me.