Where are you Elizabeth?

The roses that Gabriella and I planted in the back yard are already looking beautiful. The strawberry plants have lined the brick wall we built. And later in the summer, the tomatoes and peppers and eggplants will be ready for your tasting.

You love my meals. The duck dinner in Sarajevo we still talk about, the great end to four years of you and I huddling toogether against Serb shelling. And the voices still in our heads from those days.

Where are you Elizabeth?

I was planning a meal for us in Baghdad. You were the biggest booster of my culinary skills and insisted I cook and cook and cook in Kabul. So we did — and yet our last meal was the wonderful warmth in your Kabul house. But we all loved food and I couldn’t let you and Quinn-Judge down even in the lack of fire in Bamiyan.

Where are you Elizabeth?

The morning mist here is just like that morning in Bamiyan, when you and Quinn-Judge refused to move and put wood in the stove, even as the tasno beckoned. I went outside and watched the sun rise through the mountain pass and awaken the mountain where the two Buddhas once stood. It was beautiful and we are glad we did that trip together as well.

Yet your car went off the road and we all laughed. Accidents happen from those other drivers. In Bosnia, death was always around the corner and not just from snipers.

Where are you Elizabeth?

You and Peter were to come here to my backyard, to taste this wonderful fume blanc, in the sun and the shade and the warmth of true friendship, to hear Gabriella speak and speak and speak. She was a baby at your book party in Washington and I loved how your eyes filled with tears when you saw her and how you hugged me in joy. Now the same emotional door is open and those tears that flow now are from the sadness that it will be some time before we all see each other again.

Where are you Elizabeth?
We wanted to save all the people, you wanted more than all of us I believe. The people you couldn’t save will hug you in heaven and your voice will join those from above, to quietly ride the wind into my ears. We were always in this together and we will continue to be their voice and yours.

March 15, 2003

SARAJEVO – Just about 6 p.m. an old familiar aroma begins its daily meandering trip onto Branilaca Street. It is a smell that instantly reminds the citizens of Sarajevo of past good times.

It is coffee. Coffee being brewed. Coffee beans being ground. Coffee set in small cups by the entrances to the Cotton Club or Caffe Ramona or Gallerija to tempt those passing by. Continue Reading

The good news finally came after weeks and weeks of waiting: our favorite room – the Safari Room – at our favorite bed-and-breakfast a mere stone’s throw away from our favorite amusement park was available the nights we had requested.

It was ours and we were thrilled. After sharing the glee with my young daughter Gabriella, I asked her what would be the first ride we would take at the park. The Ferris wheel, as in the past? Her first thrill ride, the Froghopper? Or maybe The Rockin’ Tug, which became a new favorite last year? Continue Reading

Teasing sunshine makes the thoughts think of spring. Time to put things in the ground, get it ready for the eggplant, the tomatoes, the peppers.

And this year, the boots from Bosnia. Continue Reading