I grew up in southern Romania, in a house close to the cemetery. Around Easter, the whole neighborhood shifted. Women moved quietly with baskets of food and candles. Families gathered among the graves, lighting small flames for the souls of the dead. As a child, I watched all of this without fear. The dead were never distant; they were part of the living world, part of the rhythm of spring.
In the week before Easter, people painted eggs by hand, sometimes using patterns passed down through generations. But the moment that stayed with me was Holy Saturday night, the slow walk to the cemetery, the silence, the way each grave became a point of light in the dark. For a few hours, the place felt suspended, held between two worlds.
Each year, I return to that space. I’m drawn to the way people remember, how they keep something alive through repetition, through care, through the simple act of showing up.
In the week before Easter, people painted eggs by hand, sometimes using patterns passed down through generations. But the moment that stayed with me was Holy Saturday night, the slow walk to the cemetery, the silence, the way each grave became a point of light in the dark. For a few hours, the place felt suspended, held between two worlds.
Each year, I return to that space. I’m drawn to the way people remember, how they keep something alive through repetition, through care, through the simple act of showing up.
