The salt of life
I was born and raised in Solikamsk. It is a small town in the north of Perm Krai. A city that grew out of salt. Not metaphorically, but literally. His walls, his name, his breath are soaked in it. The white crystals were the reason why people stayed here. They mined, took away, sold. And then they came back, because the salt wouldn’t let go. I’m holding it in my hands—an ordinary dining room, the one that stands in every kitchen. But there’s something else in that pinch. Something that doesn’t dissolve in water. Something that stays on your fingers even when the grains are gone. Is it a memory? Or is it just a habit to think about home when you see salt? Or is it not about her, but about something else — how a place is embedded in a person, becomes part of his chemistry? We carry within us the cities in which we were born. They are like salt in the blood: they are invisible as long as everything is in order. But you only have to think about it, and here it is, on the tip of your tongue. What makes a place a part of us? And why, even after we leave, do we still taste it?
