Vasara wends her way between shoppers, ignoring the fresh cheese and the wicker baskets, the woven rugs and wind chimes. She seeks only a figure with a smoking pipe. He must be here somewhere. Farmer Gudaitis didn’t seem like the kind to let a person down. Her feet feel heavy and her heart leaden, when she catches sight of a stall at the end of the winding thoroughfare.

Her pulse quickens. She sees Justina and waves from afar. Justina is busy with a customer, but raises a palm in brief acknowledgment. Farmer Gudaitis nods sagely from behind their trestle table. Eggs, honey, and assorted grains vie for attention. Large twists of garlic hang from a pole at the side. Pungent odours saturate their stall. Vasara stops by the honey.

“I thought you hadn’t come today,” she says to Lukas.

Lukas raises an eyebrow. “I said we’d be here.”

Vasara smiles shakily. “Guess I’m nervous. I need to know what it is.”

“I should have thought to give it to you when you came. It’s been down there so long, I’d almost forgotten it was there.”

Farmer Gudaitis bends to look below the table. While he shuffles around big brown boxes and hay-colored raffia, her mind shops through the countless prisms of promise. Is it a photo? A locket? A last will and testament? Nothing would be more gratifying than a letter. Handwritten words that would bind her to these unbidden strangers. A tangible stitch through time.

Justina glances over from where she’s counting out some change.

“It won’t be down there, Lukas!” she shouts to the farmer. “Didn’t you tell me to put it somewhere special-like?!”

Lukas looks up at his wife. “I did?!” He scratches his scalp. “Was a time when my mind still did my bidding!”

Justina lifts her arm to the corner pole, the one that holds the stall’s flimsy structure together. A nondescript nylon bag hangs from a nail.

“There you are. Geros kloties! Good luck with it!”

“Thanks!”

“Don’t mention it.”

Vasara stands there, holding the bag. It is almost weightless, yet oddly risky. Distracted, she turns to go.

Lukas sucks on his pipe. “Careful now!”

Justina winks, “Stay in touch!”

She breaks into a brisk walk. Hugging the bag to her chest, she pushes against the rising wind and heads back.

Daina looks around. None of the kids are in the least bit interested in listening. They’re way too busy tuning their guitars, competing on the high notes, and fiddling around with fake microphones. Bald Darius has been struggling to construct their makeshift stage for the better part of an hour, but the tables keep wobbling. Mr. Mazeika looks like he’s about to stomp out of the class, when the secretary knocks and walks in with a huge brown envelope. Daina gawks at the official looking stamps on the front. Cool.

Mr. Mazeika pounds on his desk and calls the class to attention.

“See here, everyone!” He waves a bunch of leaflets high above his head. “The official contest guidelines. Fresh off the press.”

The class hushes.

“Now, let’s see…” He bites his droopy moustache as he peruses the documents in front of him. “Like I thought. There’s good news and bad news.”

Dramatic groans spread through the room, with a few shrill shrieks thrown in for good measure.

“Bad news first,” he says and double-checks the guidelines. “Not everyone will be making the trip to Vilnius. Only the higher grades will be singing in the main choir.”

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 613)