It's nine in the morning. I'm sitting in the small kitchen of an old house, where everything reminds me of my grandparents' apartment on the Left Bank of Kyiv. If they lived in Norway, their house would look exactly like this. Maybe a few tapestries on the walls are missing, and there's no radio playing. But still.

There's even a garlic enthusiast in the house. Not Grandpa Lenya, who used to eat sandwiches with lard and garlic every morning, but Julia. She puts garlic and pepper in everything she eats. If you could buy the "right" kind of lard in Norway, she would gladly devour the same sandwiches. I wouldn't mind either, just to reminisce about the taste of childhood.

This old house is so about memories.

Instead of tapestries on the walls, there are paintings, both drawn and embroidered. I should draw at least one to leave as a memento for the homeowners but can't seem to choose a theme. There is no huge radio set like my grandparents', but there is a piano. It's a little out of tune, literally two notes, but even without playing it, I think of my mom every time I walk past.

Hidden throughout the house are bookmarks with threads and buttons, an old sewing machine — Bonni-Marie, apparently, loved sewing. When I think of this ninety-year-old Norwegian granny, it seems she must look even a little bit like my grandmother Lyuda. She was a seamstress, and in her apartment in Rusanivka, there were also many threads, buttons, fabric scraps, and, of course, an old sewing machine. Not like the one here but with a pedal built into the table. I liked playing with it in my childhood.

Nine in the evening. I'm sitting on the bed, too big for my small room in this old house. The bedroom in my Kyiv apartment was twice as large or even bigger; there, I didn't feel like a sparrow in a makeshift feeder. There, I was the mistress of the house; here, I'm a guest renting a room.

There's hardly any free space left. I can afford a desk, but only a child-sized one — like a bedside table but with slightly taller legs. Sitting behind it will probably be uncomfortable, so I'm not rushing with purchase. 

I found myself having to squeeze my entire life into this petite children's room. I had to carefully choose what to have shipped from Kyiv — prioritizing the practical items first, followed by those that warm the soul. Now my one and only bookshelf is filled with photo albums, boxes, candles, snow globes, and books. Adorning the walls are photographs of my entire family and friends, just a glance away whenever I look up. Being a refugee has heightened my sense of sentimentality. I really don't want to forget their faces.

I miss home. The nostalgic associations that this house gives me don’t always make it easier, but it’s still much better than the feeling of emptiness.