By opening the room's window, I saw that the mimosas had bloomed. Even now, in these January days.

I felt the same joy I experience every time I see those yellow blossom; a joy tied to my adolescence. I clearly remember that my love for mimosas began during my teenage years.

Towards the end of February (could this also be connected to the fact that my birthday is then?), I would take my bicycle and ride to Tirana’s lake. The mimosas had just bloomed. They stood out among the still-bare trees. As soon as I noticed them, my reaction was physical. My eyes were captivated. I would pick a few branches and attach them to the back of my bike. Later, I’d place them in a vase in my room. I recall a kind of intoxication—a desire for love intertwined with the scent of mimosas. A certain exhilaration I haven’t forgotten to this day.

Simon Sebag Montefiore, in his book Stalin: The Court of the Red Tsar, 1929–1941 (since I come from a former communist country, I once had some interest in this type of literature), based on documents uncovered in Soviet archives after the fall of communism, portrays vividly Stalin’s demonic personality, revealing all its facets. In one instance, he recounts how Stalin once asked Lazar Kaganovich why he seemed sombre whenever jokes were made about Jews. Kaganovich replied: "You know, Comrade Stalin, that the Jewish people have suffered greatly and are as sensitive as mimosas. Touch the mimosa flower, and it closes immediately." Interestingly, the mimosa, this delicate and fragrant flower, was Stalin's favourite, and from that day on, he forbade any jokes about Jews in Kaganovich's presence.

Since reading that passage, I have begun to carefully examine myself, wondering if I might find Stalin within me (it wouldn’t have been surprising if I had). Nevertheless, this hasn’t diminished my love for mimosas.