My grandma lived near the city center in Budapest. I’d take the old Underground—the oldest subway in continental Europe—then walk across a city playground to her street. It was a comforting route; I suspect simply because of the destination. Decades had passed since the war, but many of the buildings were still scattered with dents and holes from bullets.  

Her window had an inside view to the apartment building’s courtyard. She liked to sit right next to it in her room, so she would always see me emerge onto the inner balcony on the second level. A small smile would appear that accentuated her Tatar-like features. She never did anything with exuberance and yet I thought her to be the most powerful person. She was a ‘constant’. My constant. She was filled with stories from a world that had been so different from mine. Her effect on me has been enduring because of them. Often, the stories would jump off the pages of a black photo album with thin, white interleaving paper, that sat on a shelf above a small table we’d sit at. I soaked up their faded pictures and my grandma’s words. I’d ask for certain stories to be repeated, not just because I loved hearing them over and over, but also because I never wanted to forget them.

I often think back to how different everything was when—and where—I was growing up (and I’d like to think I’m not that old). What strikes me most today is the noise. Everything and everyone is in our face and ear every day through phones and computers and much of it is empty stimulation. I miss the old photo albums, the wistful curiosity about the faces on the washed-out pictures, the wrinkled finger pointing to them and connecting them to a story. And I want to keep them alive.