The science to be gratefulWhen my dear mother comes to me, the second business, after hot embraces, kisses and a storm quite clear to all to the synoyena - maternal feelings, we are with it … we quarrel. I do not know which of us is guilty more - I or it, but as soon as etoto the hurricane of feelings and emotions utikhomirivatsya, I will find out “who as well as why“, and we will pass to more philosophical matters in which I imagine myself the expert, I who is still floundering in a flood of that “who as well as why“, I begin to philosophize, and here my dear mummy, on some especially philosophical point, at peak of everyday stories break in abrupt dive, and absolutely already in a feminine way, with insult, accuses me of inability to sympathize, condole and empathize - in a word, of absence of all filial feelings. I, absolutely, not on - synov instead of becoming silent and showing this most everyday and filial empathy, begin to prove somehow inertly “correctness of the theses, importance of arguments and indisputability of arguments“ - I talk any nonsense well - from the point of view of mother, and especially women which mother is not less, than mother.
We disperse on the rooms - it in the where it sheburshit a pillow, a blanket and still something and so at half of the night that I cannot fall asleep. I in the where I try not to move, not to breathe, not to live. At half of the night I about myself and myself, and actually it, prove the case, I turn with a side sideways, I damn the erudition and passion to philosophical disputes, and in general to abstruse philosophizing. Continually I get up to get drunk waters, to look at the watch or it is unclear why to slap a refrigerator door - I never eat at night. Then I am forgotten by some dreadful sleepiness at the crack of dawn to wake up, all in the same uneasy thought: and how there mother and what it occurred yesterday?
If it is everyday life, then I habitually swallow the porridge and which - as having washed and having brushed the hair, before put, I run for the bored work. If it is days off - that everything much worse: without getting out from - under blankets, I play for time to the last - nearly in the forenoon. Mother pretends that she is not familiar with me at all, and in general is indifferent to everything, even to the favourite coffee with chiz - sandwiches.
At last when it bursts patience, and she cannot cherish idea any more that here, behind a wall, I, its only synulya, lie in in an indecent look when midday, she sharply opens the door, and as if accidentally, by the voice strummed to indifference, almost rules to rise and go to have breakfast to me.
I, almost not affectedly submit, and on badly slept person I go to have breakfast with a grimace of unearthly grief and universal flour. Or rather, to pretend that I have breakfast: habitually I eat a porridge spoon, instead of the mother`s cutlets, or hot coffee warmed and put on a table in a coffee pot with sandwiches - I am a philosopher, it is indifferent to all everyday, and even to mother`s cutlets. Then, I quickly run away where - nibud to do something extremely useful and necessary - to move for the sake of what in usual days off without mother I also did not think also a finger.
Gradually mother thaws, and few times leaves to look and what there I am engaged in. Her strict face dawned the spring sun gradually is softened. She reddens, is thrilled, turns pale, and in some hour does not move a step from me. We together finish not so long ago begun. It pulls me whether to dozavtrakat, before put to have dinner. And here we sit at the table filled with plates with the Ukrainian borsch which mother with love cooked, with sour cream and garlic, kotletika, salatika and other food again.
I chew enough, and she tells again and tells about that, “what parasites these her neighbors who did not greet it flooded it, ignored it“. After that “a world lunch“ we deeply bury our tomahawks of war and we are filled with content with each other.
So, till the enclosed and laid way does not know whom, occurs every year. We meet, promptly we swear totally, we are also promptly reconciled, and we live the put week in such peace and harmony that it becomes somehow inconvenient: cannot be so, it is not necessary.
After everything endured, the irresistible passion to shopping begins to overcome mother. And, between plaintive lamentations about “beggarly pension“ and “how to live further“, it is aloud set by an unsoluble dilemma and that to buy it - a gold chain with a kulonchik or branded shoes from clean skin and “something in addition“.
After it, without having resolved from siy existential questions, goes behind purchases, I surprisingly joyfully sigh - why it, I so love mother.
Gradually mutual claims and other roughnesses are smoothed, smooth out, in general disappear, and we, is somehow imperceptible for itself, we learn not to notice each other shortcomings but only only to appreciate that, most important that behind them is hidden, day through three - four, we come to mutual harmony what is only possible between mother and the son.
We cannot rejoice with each other: I continually run on the market, I prepare shish kebabs in the evenings, I behave the good child. Mother kukhovarit, cleans, tolerantly listens to my philosophical nonsense, and even assents to me. We - in materinsko - a synovy nirvana. We - are happy.
Precisely so it happened and this time. As I tried to keep away from neutral philosophical estimates of mother`s everyday situations, all of us equally quarreled, and I cannot still understand what for the sake of. In the psychoanalyses about myself I referred to mother`s difficult character, to impossibility to look critically at myself, and at something. Nothing helped. I could not remember what aroused at first genuine indignation at it, and then uncontrollable sharpness at me.
We and dispersed on our rooms, dissatisfied with each other. But the next morning, all as always, we quickly stretched each other towards, and in some hour about quarrel and forgot to think.
By the way, I never considered myself as the bad son. I studied well, on streets did not gad, a difficult child was not. And all - I was struck that arguing in a retrospective on past life that years almost to thirty, I continually found in mother and mother`s education me, her son, some defects, made it a claim. In a word, considered that to me did not give the rest of that and it.
My thoughts were filled with nurseries and not really offenses. I often remembered how I unfairly received from mother on a nose, for the window broken in kitchen. Mother then did not believe me that everything happened from - for casual draft, and at all not because as she considered, “I raged here“. I was not believed then, and moreover, I obtained on the person - the only time in life - why the resentment for perfect injustice burned down me not one year.
I often remembered it as it seemed to me, indifference, when, having got confused in the teenage and such then unsoluble troubles, I came home, soaked into gloomy thoughts, went on hunger strike and lay for hours a motionless log, looking in a ceiling, till the dinner. At first I was terrorized by local hooligans, watching round the corner to take away from me money. Then the first love fell down me all weight of unexpected first feeling and almost buried under itself. Then from a firm horoshist I suddenly turned into the poor student - the shirker. And one thousand more troubles and misfortunes. And I went down stream as mother often spoke to me, an uncontrollable boat, and did not think to become reasonable.
Usually, having come home, with empty pockets and the torn apart physiognomy, I right there dived into the room, and waited for everything that here - the door here will open, mother will enter, will sit down beside me, will ask, will calm, will stroke me on hair. But nothing of that kind occurred. Mother did not enter, did not ask, did not iron me on hair, and persistently continued to deal with never-ending household problems. Or establishing the private life.
Then the Union collapsed, and to me time to go to serve came. I was so naive that on mother`s question whether I want to serve, or nevertheless it is better “to otkosit“ (there was such opportunity), firmly answered that I want to become the real man and therefore to serve by all means I will go. (Sacred simplicity! If I knew where I will get!) . But my confidence in correctness of the choice of the real man and the citizen evaporated in the first month of my valorous service. With us handled, as cattle. Beat, did not give water, did not allow to go to a toilet. Within the first three months by infinite nonsense of our commanders three of my companions died. Five or six others were due to illness transfered to the reserve - so did of them real men.
Officers of whom I got used to think, how about a blue blood and blue blood, having read noble and false books, drank day and night. “Grandfathers“ scoffed at young growth. And the service consisted in execution of the guard stultifying a brain at warehouses which were slowly and truly plundered by the same officers that a stolen property then to sell and get drunk on black. Or, for a lunch and a dinner, we stuck at some “do-good“ lieutenant colonel at home. To put it briefly, we dug, cleaned and scrubbed, went to senseless guard, and between times, received “on a head“ from “grandfathers“.
And after in one of guard “spirit“ at which systematically scoffed in an emphasis shot down with the submachine gun the lieutenant with whom I communicated every day on the most different subjects and knew it as the worthy officer, and I, in the same evening, on “successful“ combination of circumstances, was given a box on the ears for the fact that, having gone for water, I ran on five “grandfathers“ going from absence without leave to me there was a long depression.
I fell into some mindnumbing catalepsy and could look for hours in one point, scrolling all that horror in which I appeared in the inflamed brain. As in part where I served, the most natural mess reigned, I began to run in absence without leave. The feeling of freedom after twenty four hours you are under vigilant supervision not of the most worthy individuals human to a sort - the tribe, intoxicated infinitely. Well, and as the management of part nevertheless needed to hide all this chaos behind a mask of an order and the law, for one of such unauthorized absences, me the tribunal loomed. Well, or as it is called there, for those who had no wealthy parents ready to pay off. In a word, I easily could get in shtrafbat. Could if not mother. Without hesitation, mother arrived to me to part and went directly to “the most important, the fact that in a big gilded peak-cap“. I do not know what she told there, but only somehow to hush up scandal, I was transferred to other part.
Which - as having served one and a half years put then, I hardly got demobilize and returned to our two-room flat on the ninth floor. And even then, after actually survived and it is free, but did not go to an army tyuryaga, I did not realize that mother for me then made.
The mess reigned in the Post-Soviet best country on light, as well as in the strongest army. Deposits burned down (my one thousand from sale of the antiquated house, as well as kopek of all others, “safely“ evaporated in the unknown direction). “Wooden“ depreciated, and literally for one night, for the morning, all of us woke up beggars.
My yesterday`s friends - schoolmates went in shopkeepers, schoolmates in the prostitute or, at best, hurried is very unsuccessful to povyskakivat in marriage. I, on improbable protection went to work as the waiter in the Turkish tavern under the solar name “Florida“. The town was that still. I heard earlier that in our city there were prostitutes and pushers, and here got to the abyss of debauchery, meanness and easy money.
At the same time I was overcome by an illness strange and unclear until recently - passion to sciences. I dreamed to learn English all the time. But thought, as well as everything that to it I can be taught where - nibud at institute. And here, without waiting when I “am taken and taught“, I somewhere reached the self-instruction manual of English and ten times, from a crust and a crust, learned by heart it.
Then I “swallowed“ one more textbook. And still. And still. And when me vyperl from “Florida“ for delay, I, having in plenty suffered much from this injustice, at all, with the head and other bodies, went to a jungle of language of Shakespeare and Byron.
I tell all this that, idling half a year without work, and only and doing that cramming irregular verbs, articles and idioms, my mother never reproached me that I, a healthy stoyerosovy forehead, live at her expense. Later, I, of course, found to myself work. And even my weak English helped me with it. But also there I held on not for long - month three. And again unemployed. And again with the head in textbooks. And again mother made everything in order that I left though some sense. Reproach, any word for the fact that I live for nothing. That I cannot keep, be late in one place: here pay a little, injustice and a hard work there. No, it, having fulfilled the put eight hours, rushed home, both prepared, and cleaned, and in every possible way created a cosiness to the useless son.
Now, long ago having become adult and independent, I suddenly began to realize slowly that simple truth, that huge and genuine that was made for me by my mother. It treated at the nights my quinsies and wiped to me tears when the boy I sobbed for offense and injustice. It extended me from school scrapes and did not allow to roll down, weakness of character, in an indecency. It went to teachers, commanders and chiefs, asking for me, useless - about what I often learned only years later. She, it gave me the chance, to go in for my sciences, my self-education, but did not drive me behind a piece of bread, bullets shooting to me following words of rage and dislike.
Only now, when a half of my life behind shoulders, and only now, I, such clever, observant and attentive as which always considered himself, suddenly and suddenly as dawned knowledge unclear hitherto, I began to realize as many my mother gave me. As made much. Only now, already turned gray and in many respects the disappointed in this life, absolutely quite good son as I got used to think, I begin to learn to be grateful. To be grateful for that good, for those opportunities, for that happiness to be itself and that whom I always dreamed and wanted, the dear mother.
Yes, we have different characters: she likes to order about, is deep in itself and does not dig others, firmly costs on the earth. I weigh in yourself, in the thoughts and experiences, above all appreciating freedom, not wishing anybody to submit. To anybody, except mother. Also the spark will fly between us. Will begin to smell gunpowder. Its holerichny character will blow up and will roar, in a volley will roll on my sharpness and thirsting for righteousness. Will rumble so that walls will begin to tremble. But right there everything will stop, will cease. And only the understanding of how much we for each other mean that we - a single whole, let also non-uniform, different, with roughnesses and acute angles, will remain. As already there will also be an ability to appreciate kindly and to be grateful to the mother.