Rus Articles Journal

The woman in the window

... Ah, this woman in a window,
Again she is felt sorry by stars!
Flickering in a lunar gray hair,
Sparkling in her prayers plaintive,
B to it settle for an instant,
dreaming to concern a ray soul the Saint - to give
I to it the world,
to Force to smile to happiness.
Elena Butorina. The woman in a window

of the Leg go to this house. I do not want there, and they go. There is its window. I raise eyes. The window is closed. It is others. And I look... Rain drops on my eyelashes, salty. Tears and rain. And the window was cracked... I see the hand and even crumbs of bread lying on a palm. Here they. Arrived... Pigeon and pigeon. They eat from her hand. It seems to me, I hear its voice and their cooing, they communicate. It bent over them, something whispers, they peck bread and attentively listen to it. I remember it the cheerful, cheerful person. The soul of any company, got. She sang songs, liked to listen and tell ridiculous stories. And travel! Having very modest means, went much, looked, breathed air of wanderings. As though had a presentiment that time will come, and only memoirs will warm her soul and to hold afloat. All knew about her passion and when she retired, at work presented it a beautiful suitcase.


Before its window very tall trees grew. She always admired them. Seasonally they were different. In the summer green, silk foliage. Burned with a fire in the fall. In the winter, covered with a fluffy snow fur coat, they were fantastically beautiful. And in the spring naked branches against the blue sky reminded a refined Japanese water color. She sat at a window when there was a rain, and drops got her on the person. She loved wind, it ironed her gray hair. The window remained open when there was snow. An old shawl on shoulders and snowflakes on a face. Strangers raised the head and greeted it. And she joyfully nodded it and waved a hand. Many years she sat at a window. The traveler, almost sent to go. Legs. Friends gradually disappeared. Rare calls. The daughter and grandsons, of course, did not forget. But, work, study, affairs... She was tormented by sleeplessness. And at night its window reminded a beacon. It lit a way with the rare lonely passerby. The nature became her most great friend. And pigeons. They arrived every day. She cooked them food. She waited for them, and they never forgot her. Arrived. And then it did not become...

the Ray of sunlight touched a face. Tears dried. The window is closed. A pigeon and a pigeon departed. The woman in a window, I so want to see you! To hear your voice. I want to cry and laugh with you. “Mother, mummy“, - shout silently lips. To me the pigeon sits down on a shoulder...

of Reminiscence do not release us. They are sad and joyful. They - our life.