Every year we go and stand in one of the two little churches for the exact length of time my father believes sufficient. We kiss the icon and put the cash in the slot, light some candles for the sand pit of the dead and return the rude stares of our fellow churchgoers. Sometimes people from the old days will come up to talk to my father or uncle, we kiss them or shake their hands, and I stare politely into the middle distance while they talk in the old language I do not understand.
Then we are allowed to go home, to the spread of roast meats that my aunt has prepared, and the stories of the old days (if we are lucky) or the conspiracy theories (much more likely.)
Hristos se rodi.
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