It would be wonderful to talk to my parents once again. They would be quite eager to learn what had happened after their death at the very beginning of this millennium. Some of the things I would have to tell them would surprise them no end, while they would only smile on so many others. In my mind, I can well imagine our talk in the livingroom of their apartment in Kosovska Street in Belgrade. This would place them in their early eighties, when both of them were in reasonably good shape. Back then, they were not my dependents yet. Not exactly. Although they could hardly make their ends meet without my financial assistance, they were still independent both in body and mind.

The first thing that would stun my parents would be my present whereabouts. At the very mention of Istria, my mother would start laughing and crying at the same time. Motovun would mean little to her, but her eyes would light up when I would remind her how close Pazin and Buzet were to the place where I now lived. My father would only nod somewhat distractedly, but he would be pleased about this unexpected turn of events nonetheless. My experiences in Istria would hardly please them, though. My mother would turn gloomy when I would start teasing her about her nostalgia, and especially her stories about the good Istrians. My own experiences would tell a very different story. This is where my father would giggle from time to time, but he would refrain from saying anything.

My parents would be quite distraught when they would learn about the sorry end of my second marriage. It was in the air while they were still alive, but my mother was ever hopeful about it all. The fact that I have not even seen my second son and my daughter ever since my departure from Reading, where both of my parents died, would be unimaginable to them. My father would shake his head in dismay while my mother would sob and sob uncontrollably. “Eleven years?” she would gasp repeatedly. My closeness to my first son would cheer them up a bit, but not for long. “Eleven years?” No matter what I would tell them would make no difference. Their grandchildren were too important to them to imagine any meaningful explanation to the current state of family affairs.

The gradual approach of World War III would ring quite a few bells with them. The approach and eventual arrival of World War II defined much of their early years, and they would have much to say about the parallels between the two. The steady disappearance of Europe from the world scene would be most difficult for them to take. America and Russia they understood relatively well, but China and India would make little sense to them, let alone Brazil. They would just listen to me without a word. Even though my mother would get angry from time to time, she would not know what to say most of the time.

But the most confusing among my attempts at catching up would be my attempt to explain climate change to either of them. “How about the United Nations?” they would ask. All my arguments would ultimately be in vain, no doubt. “Carbon dioxide?” my parents would shake their heads in utter disbelief. The best I could do is to remind them about my warnings about the civil war in Yugoslavia. I did my best to persuade them to leave Belgrade years before the hostilities started, but they would not listen to me. Moving them from Belgrade to Reading thus ended up being much more of a chore than it should have been. At any rate, the parallel would only confuse them even more. “The United Nations will have to do something about this carbon dioxide of yours,” my parents would argue. “Forget about the civil war,” my mother would sigh and wave her hand, “but you must be exaggerating in this case…”

The only thing that would make my parents happy is my account of my love for my beloved. My mother would still remember her, for they had met in Reading a bit more than a year before my mother died. And they hit it off, too. When I would explain that I had never been with a woman as long as with my beloved, both of my parents would giggle. Our age difference would only entice their merriment. This is where my father would occasionally wink knowingly at me. “Children?” my mother would ask at some point. This would lead back to the difficult topic of World War III and climate change. My parents delayed having a child on account of World War II, but they could not imagine going without one indefinitely. And we would start revisiting everything we had covered already. There would be no end to our talk. Nor to their giggles and my mother’s tears.