Poljubac posle 58 godina / A Kiss After 58 Years

Postoje fotografije koje ne prikazuju samo ljude, nego vreme. Na jednoj takvoj slici moja sestra Mima i njen drug Saša imaju dve godine. Žive u naselju Tesla u Pančevu, u zemlji koja se tada zvala Jugoslavija, i ljube se onako kako se deca ljube — bez plana, bez stida, bez svesti da će taj trenutak jednog dana postati porodični dokument.

Na drugoj slici, 58 godina kasnije, Mima i Saša ponovo stoje jedno pored drugog. Više nisu deca iz naselja Tesla, već ljudi koji su proživeli svoje živote, preselili se, radili, starili, gubili roditelje, pamtili i zaboravljali. Danas svi živimo u Beogradu. Ali tog dana, dok su se ponovo sreli, kao da se nešto iz Pančeva vratilo sa njima.

Nije to bio samo susret dvoje ljudi koji se dugo nisu videli. Bio je to susret sa jednim vremenom. Sa dvorištima u kojima su deca ostajala napolju dok ih roditelji ne pozovu na spavanje. Sa zgradama u kojima su se komšije poznavale. Sa letovanjima koja nisu bila luksuz, nego deo života. Sa svetom u kojem su roditelji bili mladi, živi, sigurni, i u kojem nam se činilo da sve može da traje zauvek.

Kažu da su mene tada jedva nalazili da me odvedu kući. Navodno sam bio nemiran, bežao, trčao za roditeljima kada bi odlazili automobilom, pa čak i pokušavao da pušim. Šteta što se ničega ne sećam. A možda je i dobro. Jer ko zna gde bih danas bio da smo ostali tamo i da su se ti moji rani nagoni razvili do kraja.

Ali ono čega se ne sećamo, pamte drugi. Pamte majke, očevi, komšije, starije sestre, porodične fotografije. Zato ovakvi susreti nisu važni samo zbog nostalgije. Oni su važni zato što nas vraćaju u priče koje više nema ko da ispriča. Roditelji su otišli, a sa njima i mnogi detalji našeg detinjstva. Ostale su slike, poneka rečenica, poneki osmeh i poneki čovek koji se još seća onoga što smo mi zaboravili.

Danas je među nama još samo Sašina mama. I zato sledeći susret ne sme da prođe bez nje. Ona mora da bude tu. Ne samo zbog Saše i Mime, nego zbog svih nas. Da nam kaže ko smo bili pre nego što smo postali ono što danas mislimo da jesmo. Da nam ispriča gde smo se igrali, šta smo govorili, ko je plakao, ko je bežao, ko je prvi naučio da vozi bicikl, a ko je morao da ide kući baš onda kada je igra bila najlepša.

Možda je to prava vrednost ovakvih susreta. Ne vraćaju oni prošlost, jer prošlost se ne može vratiti. Ali nas podsete da je postojala. Da nismo nastali odjednom. Da iza nas stoje naselja, roditelji, komšije, mora, dvorišta, mirisi ručka, pozivi sa prozora i jedna zemlja koje više nema.

I onda shvatite da jedna stara fotografija nije samo uspomena. Ona je dokaz da smo jednom živeli sporije, slobodnije i možda bezbrižnije. Dok su roditelji bili živi, dok su vrata stanova bila otvorenija, dok je more bilo normalno, a ne projekat, i dok su deca mogla da nestanu na ceo dan, a da se svi samo malo zabrinu predveče.

Zato je ovaj poljubac posle 58 godina mnogo više od nežnog susreta dvoje prijatelja iz detinjstva. To je mali povratak u Jugoslaviju, u Pančevo, u naselje Tesla, u vreme kada su naši roditelji bili mladi, a mi još nismo znali koliko će nam sve to jednog dana nedostajati.

There are photographs that do not simply show people, but time itself. In one such photograph, my sister Mima and her friend Saša are two years old. They are living in the Tesla neighborhood in Pančevo, in a country then called Yugoslavia, and they are kissing the way children kiss — without a plan, without embarrassment, without any awareness that one day this moment would become a family document.

In the second photograph, 58 years later, Mima and Saša are standing next to each other again. They are no longer the children from the Tesla neighborhood, but people who have lived their lives, moved away, worked, aged, lost their parents, remembered and forgotten. Today, we all live in Belgrade. But on that day, when they met again, it felt as if something from Pančevo had returned with them.

It was not just a meeting between two people who had not seen each other for a long time. It was a meeting with an entire era. With courtyards where children stayed outside until their parents called them in to sleep. With apartment buildings where neighbors knew one another. With summer holidays by the sea that were not a luxury, but a normal part of life. With a world in which our parents were young, alive, reliable, and in which it seemed to us that everything could last forever.

They say that even then, I was hard to find when it was time to take me home. Apparently, I was restless, running away, chasing after my parents when they drove off in the car, and even trying to smoke. It is a pity that I remember none of it. Or perhaps it is just as well. Who knows where I would be today if we had stayed there and if those early impulses of mine had fully developed.

But what we do not remember, others remember for us. Mothers, fathers, neighbors, older sisters, family photographs. That is why reunions like this matter not only because of nostalgia. They matter because they return us to stories that almost no one is left to tell. Our parents are gone, and with them many details of our childhood. What remains are photographs, a sentence here and there, a smile, and occasionally someone who still remembers what we have forgotten.

Today, only Saša’s mother is still with us. And that is why the next meeting must not happen without her. She has to be there. Not only for Saša and Mima, but for all of us. To tell us who we were before we became who we now think we are. To tell us where we played, what we said, who cried, who ran away, who first learned to ride a bicycle, and who had to go home just when the game was at its best.

Perhaps that is the true value of such reunions. They do not bring the past back, because the past cannot be brought back. But they remind us that it existed. That we did not appear out of nowhere. That behind us stand neighborhoods, parents, neighbors, seaside holidays, courtyards, the smell of lunch, voices calling from windows, and one country that no longer exists.

And then you realize that an old photograph is not merely a memory. It is proof that once, we lived more slowly, more freely, and perhaps more carelessly. While our parents were still alive, while apartment doors were more open, while going to the seaside was normal rather than a project, and while children could disappear for the whole day, with everyone only beginning to worry a little by evening.

That is why this kiss after 58 years is much more than a tender reunion between two childhood friends. It is a small return to Yugoslavia, to Pančevo, to the Tesla neighborhood, to a time when our parents were young and we did not yet know how much we would one day miss it.