Rus Articles Journal

Why so quickly there passes life? To my grandmother it is devoted... I know

Ya, you will not become soon … Also you should not deceive crafty yourself and others, suppressing inevitable, inevitable and already such near and as to the child to wind disobediently-headed, stubborn repeating: “No, no, no! It is a lie! You still will live hundred years!“, as if my naive denial of close and inevitable can change everything. Cannot. Life and reality others, and time so quickly flies. often furtively I watch

Ya at you and I see that your thoughtful look is in increasing frequency unusually released, turned in you and already somewhere there, far, beyond our terrestrial vanity what never before was. Earlier to you to everything there was the first business, you had an opinion on all questions - and house, and is perfect you not concerning. And now you as if unwillingly habitually watch on TV news or some infinite series, or without special enthusiasm have supper, follow the habitual newspaper, or come from the yard and hurry to yourself, on all questions having wearily waved a hand as if quietly speaking: “Ah, leave me, leave with the nonsenses“.

Each person in our life at us is associated with something. What is for me my grandmother? What recurs to the memory as soon as I think of it? Interestingly, but alimentary associations for some reason the strongest: mushrooms in banks and dried mushrooms which I so loved, fried potato with unique taste of the childhood, fried sunflower seeds, tinned apples and pears, sour milk on a window sill and the crucians caught in a neighbour`s pond and plotvichka which I without fail dried. Then family albums which I reconsidered nearly every day, library with old books with the turned yellow pages of the edition 50 - 60 - x years of the last century and shevchenkovsky night with one thousand flickering stars which are generously scattered on the sky by the Creator are remembered.

How long it was? In what times? Perhaps in antecedents? Well, of course, in last and as if someone else`s life, years so one thousand ago. My dear granny, ubiquitous and tireless, rising before all and laying down after all, with one hundred important and necessary issues, noisy and cheerful, my eternal grandmother.

Three “cities“ on which everything grew, from fennel and to the huge “garbuz“ scattered in the different ends which needed to manage to be bypassed, weeded, watered, corrected … I will never forget how I forcedly stayed with you the whole four months which dropped out at first on your “sowing campaign“, and then both on “pro-half-internal“ and on “irrigation“, and we every morning as soon as the sun appeared on - over tops of distant sleepy pines, went through the nearby fields which are already turning green the first emerald grass.

First it was game. Amusing and fascinating game for me, the city dweller. We dug up the heavy, crude and still sleeping earth, threw into it some seeds, put some seedling, fertilized, watered and made ten more - another of some svyashchennodeystvenny manipulations. Then we did a break, got some sandwiches, the cold water taken from Krinitsa still, exchanged impressions, prophesied about future harvest. The spring sun warmed more and stronger, in air modulating bird`s singing ringed, in a grass chirred and buzzed in every possible way, and all this was such zhizneprobuzhdayushchy and vital that it was necessary to live and rejoice endlessly because of some recent grief already.

I remember how you, I and your girlfriends put cabbage seedling. Put everything, the friend the friend, worked together, under the daring Ukrainian song, and from this collective work, for the sake of general welfare when nobody with anybody competes, does not try to take itself more and to seem before another better, at heart it became unusually warm and joyful. The feeling of comradeship forgotten in turmoil of city life (and not habitually sideways), the simple and unvarnished sincere relation, a good advice and a joyful smile forced to dream involuntarily of that, but whether not to throw everything and whether not to remain there forever here so every morning to go in the field, to water cabbage seedling, to sing songs and to rejoice each other. Seedling then, however, all pomerzla, but what it mattered?

Now all three of your girlfriends, whose simple persons oddly are always on my mind though I saw them all several times, in other, best world. And I can hardly believe that in life everything is so simple and inexpressive: there is a person, and there is no person. Quietly so, imperceptibly. Is, and right there not any more. There is a his face full lives, a ringing voice, characteristic manners and strange habits … and there is already nothing from this …

Remember one our trip. Trips, actually, there was a set, we were with you in the Crimea, in Sochi, went to relatives, but this trip was for some reason remembered especially. I then needed to take away the things from the aunt in Kiev. There were many things, and you, despite the elderly age, decided to help me. Then did not come to my mind somehow yet to be ashamed for this help, I was only glad to the assistant. It was so interesting to travel by trains. To see how flashes, the landscape behind a window as the warm sun replaces a sudden summer rain as float by one hundred and hundreds of people unfamiliar to you, with the lives, destinies changes. To descend at one station and to sit down again.

At one of such stops we decided to visit your girlfriend, and at the same time and to remain to spend the night. All picture still is always on my mind as if it was only yesterday. I even remember the smallest details of the station and, of course, your girlfriend, though did not remember her name.

The street, dimly lit, wet after a rain. Indistinct outlines of old, almost ancient houses of a sound bricklaying already then the left era. Lonely figures of overdue passersby, it is old-fashioned dressed as if got stuck in the same, the left era. High, under three meters, Stalin ceilings, strange planning the apartment with kitchen from post-war movies, a high bed with a set of mattresses and a heavy blanket which, appear, can crush at night you to death. And little, extraordinary friendly old woman with appeared as to me then it was inadvertently thought, slightly noticeable press of not resident on a small smiling face (in a couple of years she really died).

Long conversation of old men after midnight, in dim light of an old-fashioned kitchenette, early walk on the market that comfortably took place since the morning under windows of my temporary room, salty and very tasty herring and boiled potato in uniforms for breakfast, long farewell, again wet, but already such clear and friendly street in beams of the shy sun, again the car with wooden benches, day, evening, and here we already at home …

Time really quickly flew by and flies even quicker, than before. Most of your girlfriends already left - only I knew five. Already and you furtively look them after, and I see how many melancholy in your look. How many humble grief in your voice when you speak about them. How many nostalgia. Leaves, already yours almost left, voyenno - post-war generation. Generation of people of others, others, unclear and misunderstood in this modern world. And maybe, and it is necessary, not to lag behind the generation, to remain to it devoted up to the end and to follow it, especially without delaying.

Pokolenye! I - yours! Prodolzhenye`s
of mirrors.

Yours - an essence and article,
I respect for mind,
I contempt for the Flesh
dress - temporary!

... Till the last o`clock
Turned to a star -
the Leaving race,
Thanks to you!
M. Tsvetaev

But I in increasing frequency, also seem, in vain, I wonder again not to find the answer: what to me to make that you longer remained with us?