June means strolling through

the cramped streets of my mother’s hometown.

Rain glistens on the cobblestones

and tiny streams well up around them,

Coursing back to the Baltic Sea.

Frail babushki sell their prized possessions,

one euro in exchange for

a bite into fresh, juicy nectarine.

Unkempt weeds sprout through cracks of the pavement,

the pungent odor of herring swirling through the air.

Babushka buys me

yet another ice cream,

the spongy cone melts away in my hand

and creamy drops splash in a week-old puddle.

Sun rays peek through

dispersing clouds,

babushka wipes away the beads of sweat

dotting her forehead.

“Let’s go to the beach,” she says

so we board the ferry.