I often stealthily look at you and see that your thoughtful look is more and more often unusually detached, turned inward to you and already somewhere out there, far, beyond the limits of our earthly vanity, which has never happened before. Before you, before everything was the first case, you had an opinion on all issues - both domestic and completely irrelevant to you. And now, as if reluctantly, you usually watch news on TV or some endless series, or without much enthusiasm you have dinner, follow a familiar newspaper, or come from the yard and hurry to yourself, waving a hand all over the questions, as if quietly saying: “Ah leave me, leave with your nonsense. "
Every person in our life is associated with something. What is my grandma for me? What comes to mind as soon as I think of her? Interestingly, for some reason, the nutritional associations are the strongest: canned mushrooms and dried mushrooms that I loved so much, fried potatoes with the unique taste of childhood, fried seeds, canned apples and pears, sour milk on the windowsill and carp and carp fish caught in a neighboring pond which I compulsorily dried. Then I recall family albums, which I reviewed almost every day, a library with old books with yellowed pages of the 50–60th edition of the last century, and a Shevchenko night with thousands of twinkling stars generously scattered across the sky by the Creator.
How long has it been? What times? Maybe in a past life? Well, of course, in the past and as if someone else’s life, some thousand years ago. My dear granny, omnipresent and tireless, who got up before everyone else and went to bed later than everyone else, with hundreds of important and necessary things to do, is noisy and cheerful, eternal my grandmother.
Three “mountains” on which everything grew, from dill to huge “garbuz” scattered in different ends, which you had to manage to go around, weed, water, correct ... I will never forget how I had to stay with you for four months first fell on your “sowing field”, and then on the “weeding” and on the “irrigation”, and every morning, as soon as the sun appeared over the tops of the distant sleeping pines, we went through the nearby fields already turning green with the first emerald grass.
At first it was a game. A fun and exciting game for me, a city dweller. We dug up heavy, damp and still sleeping earth, threw some seeds into it, planted some seedlings, fertilized, watered and made a dozen or so some other sacramental manipulations.
Then we took a break, got some sandwiches, still cold water taken from a cold room, exchanged impressions, prophesied about the future harvest. The spring sun was warming stronger and stronger, flooded bird songs rang in the air, chirped in the grass and buzzed in every way, and it was all so vital and life-affirming that it was impossible to live and rejoice endlessly because of some recent sadness .
I remember how you, me and your friends planted cabbage seedlings. They imprisoned everyone, each other, worked together, removed the Ukrainian song, and from this collective work, for the common good, when no one competes with anyone, tries to take more and look better than others, the soul became unusually warm and happy . The feeling of elbow, forgotten in the turmoil of city life (and not familiar to the side), a simple and sincere unadorned attitude, good advice and a joyful smile made you unwittingly dream about whether you should leave everything and not stay there forever, so every morning walking on the field, watering cabbage seedlings, singing songs and enjoying each other. Seedlings then, the truth, all froze, but what did it matter?
Now all three of your girlfriends, whose simple faces stand in a strange way before my eyes, although I have seen them only a few times, in another, better world. And I can’t believe that everything in life is so simple and inexpressive: there is a person, but there is no person. Quiet so, unnoticed. There is, and then no longer. Here is his face, full of life, clear voice, characteristic manners and strange habits ... and now there is none of this ...
I remember one of our trip. There were a lot of trips, in fact, we were with you in the Crimea, in Sochi, went to visit relatives, but this trip was somehow remembered especially. I then needed to take my things from my aunt in Kiev. There were many things, and you, despite your middle age, decided to help me. Then it did not occur to me to somehow feel ashamed of this help, I was only glad to have an assistant. It was so interesting to travel by train. To see how the landscape flashes, the landscape outside the window changes, how the warm sun replaces the sudden summer rain, how hundreds and hundreds of unfamiliar people float past you, with their lives and destinies. Go to the same station and sit down again.
At one of these stops, we decided to visit your girlfriend, and at the same time stay overnight. The whole picture still stands before my eyes, as if it was just yesterday. I even remember the smallest details of the station and, of course, your girlfriend, although I did not remember her name.
Dimly lit, wet after a rain street. The vague outlines of the old, almost ancient houses of solid brickwork already then a bygone era. Lonely figures of belated passersby, old-fashionedly dressed, as if stuck in the same, past era. High, under three meters, Stalin's ceilings, a strange layout apartment with a kitchen from post-war films, a high bed with a lot of mattresses and a heavy blanket that seemed to crush you to death at night. And a small, unusually friendly old woman with a tread, as I then accidentally thought, with a slightly perceptible seal of a non-inhabitant on a small smiling face (in a couple of years she really died).
A long conversation of old people after midnight, in the dim light of an old-fashioned kitchenette, an early walk to the market that comfortably housed in the morning under the windows of my temporary room, salty and very tasty herring and uncooked potatoes for breakfast, a long goodbye, again wet, but already such a clear and welcoming street in the rays of a timid sun, again a carriage with wooden benches, day, evening, and now we are at home ...
Time really flew by and flies even faster than before. Most of your friends have already gone - only I knew five. Already you sneak up on them, and I see how much longing you look. How much humble sadness is in your voice when you talk about them. How much nostalgia. Leaves, your military-post-war generation is almost gone. The generation of other people, others, incomprehensible and incomprehensible in this modern world. And maybe this is the way to keep up with his generation, to remain loyal to him to the end and follow him, especially without delay.
Generation! I'm yours!
The continuation of the mirrors.
Yours is the essence and article,
And with respect to the mind,
And contempt for the dress
Flesh - temporary!
... until the last hour
Turned to the star -
But I more and more often, and it seems in vain, I ask myself not to find the answer again: what should I do so that you stay with us longer?