People used to say it wrong all the time. Hvezda. Pronouncing the “H”, or a soft v…I didn’t like it. Maybe I even shied away from it. I hope not, but I think it’s true.
Sharing the new painting of my grandfather a few days ago, I was reminded of the lyrics by the Avett brothers — “Always remember there was nothing worth sharing
Like the love that let us share our name”.
After all these years, to know that people can still hear the sound of my grandfather’s voice. That they can still smell the sweet smoke of his pipe. This is more than amazing to me, this is a gathering under the Hvezda name. This, for me — being a country away and the name twice removed — is a comfort, as warm, as tangible, as the quilt that my grandmother made.
All these feelings needed a breath of fresh air yesterday, so I took them out for a walk. It’s been awhile since I’ve gone on the gravel path, by the small mountain near our house. With Covid restrictions, I got out of the habit, and stayed closer to our property. The familiar that made it’s way from my feet to my heart, was palpable. The steps had never left me. Even the river seemed to know my name. Pronouncing, flowing it correctly, as I walked by on the path.
Love carried, and shared, never dies.