This was a street where life moved at a slower, more human-friendly pace - where children played outside until late in the evening, where there was the smell of roast potatoes and where neighbours still knew how to really talk.
There was no one on that street who was completely alone. We went to each other's houses for visits, picnics or just to sit together on the terraces, exchanging stories, news and homemade biscuits. The street was a world of its own - small, but full of hearts.
Our neighbour, Mr Milan Frangež, was the oldest resident of the street. We were exactly 70 years apart. He was still an upright gentleman with blue eyes and a slow, dignified gait, and I was a little girl with dishevelled hair and an eternal smile. Yet we had something in common. Our birthdays were on the same day - 28 June. Every year, when summer rolled around and the days became scorching, full of promises of sea, sand and ice cream, we would wish each other a happy birthday. Always. And we always gave each other little presents.
Mr Milan usually brought me something simple but carefully chosen - an old brooch, a wooden heart, a book from the Puppy Piki or a card, carefully inscribed with warm words. He was not a man of big words, but he knew how to say the essential. In return, I would draw him pictures, bake him biscuits with my mother or write him a letter. When I was younger, of course, with the help of someone else. I remember how he smiled when I wrote to him once: "You are like an old oak tree - strong and wise."
Our relationship was not just a nice habit, it was also a school of life. Mr Milan taught me respect. He taught me that old age is not something to fear, but something to embrace. He showed me how important it is to make time for each other. To respect the wisdom that the years bring, and that older people know how to rejoice too - but in their own quieter, calmer way.
When Mr Milan died, I was an adult. But every year on 28 June, I still think of him. And somewhere deep inside, I feel as if this time he is wishing me - and I him - a happy birthday.
Today, living in a world where relationships are too often superficial and time passes too quickly, I would like every child to have their own Mr Milan. Someone who shows him that respect is not something that is taught in books, but something that is lived. It is reflected in little touches, in open doors of the home and the heart, in a gift in the middle of the summer heat.
And even though that street has changed over the years and I no longer live there, it still lives in me. With all the terraces, the picnics, the loud laughter and the blue eyes of a gentleman who gave me much more than just a gift - he gave me a treasure that I will always carry with me. We call it respect.
Zala Krupljan, 11. 4. 2025
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