The Crossing.

I'd seen the railway junction at night. Lit only by hesitant headlights as I searched for my cabin in the woods. The freight cars glistened with frost and the tracks stretched lazily east toward the Belorussian border. Glimpses of small, seemingly abandoned houses; the remnants of summer huddled under hanging pines.

What was this place? Who lived here? Does anyone live here at all? Questions I took with me as I drove the remaining few midnight kilometres to Siemianówka in the marshy wilds of Eastern Poland.

I returned the very next day. Camera in hand.

Clinging to the railway tracks lay a few dozen oddly incongruous cabins, shacks and old freight cars, repurposed as summer homes. But deserted - totally deserted in a beguiling, somewhat unsettling way. As I walked the quiet streets I couldn't help but try and imagine this place full of life. Full of summer, friends, family and memories.

The secret, it seems, is to sit quietly and wait for the memories bound up in this place to find you. Because they are there: a vivid collection of recollections, sepia-toned and held captive by the passage of time.

If you listen, you can hear the sounds of The Crossing.

I remember Marcin as a little one, toddling around the cabins yanking up dandelions by the fistfuls, and presenting them shyly to me when I was reading on the porch. He’d plop right down, sticking flowers behind both our ears and in my braid, grinning those two little teeth of his while chattering about adventures with imaginary dragon friends. I never did meet any of these soul mates. Hehe...

Agnieszka H. (1982 - 1987)

Oh yes, the damp earth clinging to our bare feet as we breathed in the wildflower meadows, feeling deliciously small and hidden. My brother, Andrzej, he taught me woodcraft, whittling reed pipes together to play in our orchestra. I remember, one particular afternoon, I found a perfect four-leaf clover down there - I was on top of the world back then, it felt like anything was possible...

Damian (1982 - 1984)

When summer hinted its slow recession on cooler mornings, Mother always rose early to stand by the window, watching veils of river mist burn away under that shimmering amber light as she slowly stirred her coffee. I wonder now if she found some sort of revelation, you know, written across the still emerging world?

Anna (1983 - 1988)

Rain would always bring the earth's secrets rising to the surface - coils of wood ear fungi curling like scrollwork , the golden oyster's proud bloom, twig tips peeking through drenched soil. On long, carefree hikes, Aunt Annika would show me patterns of mushrooms that had popped up overnight - nature's magic, I suppose, as intimate and close as the damp woods.

Elzbieta (1982 - 1984)

Oh yes... clouds of delicate lacewings would float through the lamplit dusk as we caught fireflies, releasing them from old mason jars with such longing and wonder. Father played haunting melodies on his old harmonica - sweet high notes echoing the glittering pulses drifting into the firs as world weary stars emerged. He loved that harmonica. It only ever made an appearance when we were there...

Karol (1981 - 1986)

Gosha would twirl me around the cramped little kitchen while stirring the bubbling pots on the ancient stove-top. It had seen better days! She would show me her old dance steps in her creaky way - slow slow, quick quick, slow. You know, moves from 1930's Warsaw... I always felt so elegant and graceful under her gaze, her strong hands guiding me as we hummed along to the Edith Piaf songs floating from the battered radio.

Maria (1983 - 1989)

It was magical, yes... on clear nights, Grandma often pulled us outside to trace the inky constellations and tell us celestial tales, pointing out Saturn's glow amid the ember sparks of our fire. Her steady hand guiding my gaze through unknown galaxies grounded me, while my imagination drifted into those deep cosmic mysteries. I don't think we have skies like that anymore. It's sad.

Piotr (1985 - 1987)

It was always hot. Even at night. But on stormy days we'd abandon our soggy adventures to huddle by the wood stove crafting potato prints and paper dolls while thunder rattled the little shack. Greta was best at cutting precise silhouettes that always seemed ready to spring to life with adventures beyond our dusty windows to the forest beyond.

Weronika (1982 - 1986)

My little brother Jakob would wake me up before dawn, breathless over finding the elusive cauliflower mushroom under the pine boughs - ripe for harvesting. We would jump into damp clothes, hair wild, and follow him through the dripping woods. His little frame fit best - shimmying into hiding nooks, proudly emerging with his prized specimens as we cheered him on proudly. He'd have been fifty years old this year... god rest his soul.

Natalia (1981 - 1984)

Happy memories? Of course. Rain or shine, Mother sat scraping carrots, peeling potatoes, and kneading dough with wrinkled hands – humming old traditional hymns passed down through the generations. We’d all gather round, chopping cabbage, watching her sturdy frame preparing delicious spreads for the entire family. I’d give anything to be put to work peeling apples with her calloused guidance just one more time. I can still smell it, you know?

Zoysa (1983 - 1987)

My brother was obsessed! He carried a worn out guitar everywhere during summer on his breaks from university, often picking out random songs long into the night. It was the soundtrack to my summer that year. We’d all fall silent peering into the crackling flames, mesmerised by his nimble hands plucking these melodies from thin air. I don't know if he was any good or not. It didn't matter, you see...

Basha (1984 - 1988)

I remember there were damp towels hanging everywhere, while us four soaked cousins jumped on the sagging beds as thunderstorms rattled the old window panes for days straight sometimes. We'd swim in the lake, rain or no rain. We played endless games of war, made blanket forts and laughed until our bellies ached. The summer was soft and warm and the lake...

Lucasz (1983 - 1985)

Little things stick out when I think back on those long-ago summers - Marlena's burnt pot roasts that we all choked down smiling; my father's off-key whistling echoing through the trees; the clunk-clunk-clunk of my mother's little typewriter late into the night as she chain-smoked. Working on her novel, she'd say. We were broke as anything back then, no foreign holidays or seaside villas for our family. But those cabins, they gave us each other...

Marianne(1982 - 1986)

The Crossing.

Appreciated that? Try this:

Footer navigation