I am used to losing things in this life. It feels like my being cannot make it through this journey caring a lot of baggage.

The moment when losing hurt just like a freshly cut wound is burning, a kind of pain I still remember, have the memory of, like you remember a lost part of your body- that moment is when my first and last pair of summer sandals disappeared.

It was summer in Moldova in my home town and we were playing again on the river shore. Oh that river felt like the Amazon to me. It was the force of life calling us kids to it, those who were wide open to hearing it.

After months and months of patiently waiting and struggle my parents managed to get me a pair of summer sandals.

They were brown, leather straps, the leather was freshly cut and they looked perfect to me. I remember caring them in my hand afraid to start using them, they were too good to be for me, the girl who was lonely talking to dead fish floating in the water.

I remember putting them aside on the wet sand and running away. Away from what those sandals meant? Away from everything I could and should have had - winter boots and warm cloths, books, enough food, support, someone to talk to? Away from being the silent girl? Away from my parents who did not even seem to notice the pain I am floating in, looking at and hearing all around me. The upspoken pain people carry around in their eyes.

When I came back the sandals were gone. I got punished and yelled at for that at home.

I will forever ask myself : Where did the sandals go? Why whiteout me?

I learned to walk barefoot.