Today I decided to go all the way back to me being 7.



So much fun and carelessness.

My Granny.

The dancer!

The daughter of the famous Russian ballerina who married a Lithuanian.

My Granny is Lithuanian and she married a very tall man.

My dad was born tall. My mum is tall too. I’m tall.

I’m no good to dance.

My Granny loves that about me. She brushes my long hair and says, “You will be special because you’ll be more than a dancer.”

But I want to be her!

She is unique!

She is so petite! So small! I’m almost her height!

She dances.


She opens cabins with such grace!

Takes out the cups.

Then pirouettes and reaches for the plates.

So gracefully.

I applaud!

The little lady bows and serves me dinner.

I have some lamb with mashed potatoes and vegetables on the side.

My Granny has her usual: a piece of black bread and a glass of kefir.

She always eats the same.


Because she is a dancer, I assume.

She is unique.

I’m not.

I’m tall.

And I like my meat.