The Broom Merchant

Although the country is dirty, the broom bussiness is not flourishing. We could use some spring cleaning everywhere around and I don't speak only about dust or spider webs in the corners of the room.

Today the Sun was up for the first time after 1st of March. I know since I was a child in my parents' home, that they would come all day around the village, shouting their hearts out, backs bent under the bunch of branches they carry.

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"Hey lady! Don't you need a broom? Come on! Spring is here, you need new twigs to scrap off the poultry dirt!" they would scream, hanging on the fence, to my mom.

Usually, the first one to come would be the first one to sell. They were hard to get off the fence after the kilometers they traveled by foot from the other village. They were just setting their hourly camp in front of the yard, eating there the little they had with them. Traveler's picnic, that meal you take fully hungry, with the feeling of satisfaction. Sometimes us, the children, were more open and pitied them. We were giving them some of the food we could steal from home.

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The seasonal trader, either by foot or by cart - that almost-an-institution human coloring the memories of my childhood, that powerful voice, able to scream for hours in a row, ruining my saturday mornings, that gipsy face that was always bringing the sweetest watermellons in the month of August. I live in the city now.

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They don't ruin my mornings anymore but I miss it. I see them passing by, on the sidewalk, coming from the train station and heading for the villages around.

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