The old photoOn we wash a table costs a starenk the photo in a frame. On it my family. Grandfathers, grandmothers, mother, father, aunts, uncles. Cousin, grand and still some. And suddenly strikes me banal and ruthless as death, thought: there is no half of them …
the Grandfather on the maternal line any more. Mighty as oak. Rough and fair. Business and reticent. Pit superintendent. My last memoirs about it is mute - my arrival when to me there were years fifteen. Basin with strawberry and the mountain of sugar in kitchen. “Zhigulyovsk“ with sour cream. The nickname “Beaver“ which we with the brother gave it.
My uncle. Uncle Tolya. Went to forty eight. Divorce, oblivion, nikomunenuzhnost. Alcohol. Illness. And mortal melancholy. Fifth floor. Four-room apartment. And lonely fading. Young, beautiful, “clever fingers“. It here also looks from the sepulchral photo.
My paternal grandmother. Little, sentimental woman Shura. Closed window leaves a special stick because did not reach. Fried a cauliflower and put cucumbers in borsch. Speak, strongly was ill. Now lies somewhere near my grandfather and my uncle. And where, I do not even know.
Other relatives. Who they are were to me - I will not even call. Died. Died. Died. This smoked much and eternally joked. This was grumbling. And this kind. And there are no all …
On the way and others any more. The most resistant. Most “zhizneneprobivayemy“. Ded Wan. Father of my father. If I also wanted to resemble ever whom, then it. The colonel who reached Berlin. Or - definitely I do not remember Budapest. Tightened. Optimistical. All breast in awards. Smacks the lips and rubs a chin a hand. How many to it? Eighty eight. Almost blind. Almost deaf. And all same tightened and cheerful. Ah, Wan`s grandfather, Wan`s grandfather. As if we could live and be on friendly terms with you. If not divorce of mother with the father. If not five thousand kilometers between us. If not this foolish life from which so hurts so hurts … We could go fishing
with you. Could repair something in garage. And to go together to a kitchen garden where you would pull out the biggest carrot and gave me. You would give me man`s manuals. Taught my mind - reason. Sometimes would become angry about me for my nonsense and would never shout. Because you always were fair.
As if much you could be in my dissolute life. And as there was a little. Incomparably, unfairly, on - silly it is not enough.
How many to you remained? Year? Two? Five? I am not a pessimist. I am a realist. Life is lived. And it is better to say goodbye now, having told all good, than then when you do not hear me.
My grandmother Liouba, mother`s mother. Eighty five. Or six. Until recently, only yesterday you ran on the kitchen gardens, to girlfriends, on chorus. Also became angry about me. Even was jealous. And now … now you are detached. Somewhere it is far. It seems and nearby, and it seems is also not present. As those who already thoughts there.
Bean soup and mushrooms in banks. Sour milk on a window sill. Poradnitsa newspaper. Ukrainian songs. Photo albums of Soviet period. Alushta. Sochi. Batumi.
Trains. Kiev. Exactly. Korosten. The girlfriend in the strange apartment with high ceilings. Now it is absent. April heavy rains. Grubka. Baked potato. Herring with sunflower oil. Moonshine. Christening.
Every year your friends and acquaintances leave. This. This. These. Those girlfriends with whom we, it seems still yesterday put cabbage and sang songs. “Igarok“. “Kakaruz“. “Hodimo“. And all of you were vigorous and cheerful. And now … now you from all look at the face of the colleagues. You touch with a hand a hand. And your words are filled with love. And each meeting - as if farewell. “Good-bye, my friend, good-bye …“.
What strange life. What fast. And what silly. To live it at the end to understand that everything that it is necessary for you - it is to be near. Near those who are dear to you. Near those who love you. Near those who leave. To be near.