STORK TIME
EVERY AFTERNOON COSTI jogged through his village to the bus stop to meet the daily bus from Bucharest. Today his breath made puffs of white in front of his face, like the cotton candy he and his friend had sampled on Children’s Day last year. At the plastic lean-to, he perched on a cold seat next to the village priest and his younger sister Ana.
“Buna ziua,” the priest said.
Costi wished him a good day in return, but he didn’t look at the priest’s sister. Ana, tall and beautiful and always laughing, made him stuttery and shy.
“You are here again?” the priest asked.
Costi said, “I wait every afternoon for my brother. He will come home from Germany any day now.”
The priest grunted. So many Romanian young people left their villages these days. Often they went to Germany to pick strawberries or other produce,
