The clouds billow in from the west, like puppets on strings, their shapes the fantasy of a child’s imagination. We follow a field of yellowing rye down a narrow dirt road. Grass grows between the wheel wells and bachelor’s buttons scatter blue along its side. We stop a short distance from a copse of trees, and the ruins of a small homestead to visit the stone that stands alone, engraved with the name, Henrik Visnapuu.
In Tallinn, I had witnessed his final burial. In the south, I have come to the place of his birth, Helme. From Tartu my eyes have been fixed on the passing landscape, as I head into the countryside of Visnapuu’s childhood memoir, Päike ja Jõge (The Sun and the River).
Across my window, move the images Visnappu wrote. Childhood revisited in a DP camp after the war: a world forever lost. In an East Harlem flat, its the sound of a typewriter. Silvia’s memories return to my window. Refugees, without return.
In front of the stone by a field of rye, finches curtsy in flight and bees hum in the lindens. I do not read the words, but I feel the landscape, vibrantly alive, a place called childhood. A place called home.