Of What Is Never Truly Self-Evident

For many, many years, everything has been the same.

Slowly, as I back the car—fully loaded, especially with vegetables and still-warm food—out of the yard, I watch with one eye to make sure I don’t knock anything over, and with the other, I watch them—
always a hand silently blessing Mom and Grandma, and a sudden gesture pressing a hand to the temple for Dad and Grandpa, who, spinning through life among soldiers, bids farewell with a gesture of respect.

As I back out, I always worry about not knocking over those narrow gates of my childhood home, because there’s always a bittersweet knot in my throat—
that after a week of carefree time at home, with Mom, I return to the whirlwind of everyday life.

Like stepping from shelter into the wind.

Driving away, I honk and accompany them with my eyes—eyes that for countless years have tracked theirs with that same unconditional, caring gaze:
“Text me when you get there.”

And again, my heart tightens, leaving the “Panama Is Very Beautiful” story, where two main characters—Teddy and Tiger (Mom and Dad)—disappear from my horizon, along with their cozy riverside cottage, always smelling of homemade food and garden-grown vegetables.

Driving the Panevėžys–Vilnius highway, I have plenty of time to think about how lucky I am to have them.

A home to return to. People who are always so eager to see you.

Have you read the book Panama Is Very Beautiful?

I read it twice.
Once in childhood, and once recently.

The first time, I read it as a fairy tale about two friends.
The second time—as a wonderfully beautiful story about home.

I drive those 150 km and think: as a child, you read books without looking for deeper meaning.

Unconditional parental love—felt obvious.

A roof over your head. Coziness and calm in every corner of the house—regular.

Food, every tasty bite made for you—deserved the status of “it is simply so, and cannot be otherwise.”

Because in a child’s understanding—it could not be otherwise.

Then you grow up.

You leave those cozy homes, smelling of homemade food and unconditional love, to seek your own “Panamas.”

And only then—in the journey toward your own maturity—you realize: nothing you took for granted, nothing that seemed “naturally the same everywhere,” existed in your childhood.

Everything you accepted as self-evident—magically gains meaning.

And love.
And warmth.
And unfeigned, unconditional waiting for your return.
And the gaze.
And the embrace.
And the care—so that only good happens to you.

It doesn’t scatter.
It doesn’t run out.
It doesn’t appear just by clapping your hands.

Look for as many “Panamas” as you want.

Circle the world in rounds and squares.

Experience it. Taste it. Touch it.

But what you find when you return to that small, all-encompassing home—

Those eyes that always wait for you beyond reason.

That smell of homemade food—which means—“you are the most important to me.”

That embrace—which always comforts…

That is a fairy tale. One you never have to outgrow.

Never.

❤️

For your own “Panamas.”
The ones that, taken for granted, suddenly become pricelessly magical.

V.