By Lana Spendl
This piece first appeared in Atticus Review (Reverb Issue)
She did not go down into Sarajevo anymore but she dreamed of it sometimes. She longed to sit in a café in the old Baščaršija Quarter and sip cold yogurt from a tall glass. She longed to wipe the circle of moisture left by the glass on the metal table. Women might sit across from her and ask about the runnings of her household, and she’d talk about the draperies and the flowers and her son’s job at the university, and she would shake her head at how stressed he was and she would touch her fingers to her gold earrings to make sure they sat well on her lobes.