Little Love Stories: "What Ukrainian Grandmothers Wrote"

Modern Love in Miniature, with reader-submitted stories no longer than 100 words.

Ukrainian Spring Love Song

At my Ukrainian grandmother's house in Chicago, around 1970, Easter started right after Christmas. The aroma of burning candle, melting beeswax, vinegar dye and fresh coffee woke me up. Grandmother would be sitting at her table, barefoot. In one hand she was cradling an egg. In the other she held a kistka, a wax-dipped wooden stylus. While she painted, Ukrainian flowers bloomed, musical scores played, golden wheat grew. Grandmother translated her memories of the house to me. Ukrainians call these eggs "pysanky", from "pysaty", which means "to write". And oh, what Ukrainian grandmothers wrote - every spring. - Karen Doornebos

ImageMy Ukrainian grandmother in 1933, dressed in her traditional folk costume for a dance troupe. Pysanky that she created later in life circles her photo.

What gets old< p class="css-at9mc1 evys1bk0">At the time it was new to me - the feeling of being addict. Any smile, look, or wry acknowledgment of the game we were playing circled around in my head until we came together. I wanted her, and savored it all: a little conversation that seemed so much bigger than the office we were sitting in; a whiff and pass of a local birthday present; short kisses on the console of my car when I wasn't even in the park. For two months I was able to I can't sleep. But once she told me (reluctantly) about the other Colorado girl, it all got so old, so fast. — Michelle Wang

ImageDebriefing my roommate, as I have done almost every night these two months.

Symbols of Hope< p class="css-at9mc1 evys1bk0">Every 30 years or so, Ramadan and Passover coincide. My mother is Jewish; my father is muslim. I was conflicted about my seemingly disparate religions, but now, at 50, I fully accept myself. Inshallah, I will be 80 when the holidays resynchronize. This year, I'm celebrating with a date and a savory samosa. I dip crispy matzo in sweet charoseth. My two sons, in their twenties, are Bangladeshi Muslims and Ashkenazi Jews. Only recently in their lives have their vacations converged. May the three of us be symbols of hope, of solidarity between Muslims and Jews. I wish all humans to live in peace. — Tamara M.C.

ImageMy sons in Dhaka, Bangladesh, for their Aqiqah, an Islamic tradition. It is usually done when a child is seven days old, but it can be done until puberty.