Rus Articles Journal

Holiday with darlings: hi and farewell?

Week of our meeting flew by quickly as a fine dream - dream. Time was even more inevitably than usually, time has come,, and here you again, already again, did not become. Only a minute to that, some tiny instant of life before, some hardly notable movement of time and space - here it, you, live, here, with me … I give a hand, touching your hand … I hear your voice … I inhale your smell … And you are not here any more … it seems to

I, by air an ultraviolet only lilac circles left by you slowly disperse … The hand encounters the pressing emptiness where only a minute to that there were you, you breathed, you said, smoothly dissects it in half and, without having met a habitual barrier, puzzly and lonely falls back … You are absent again any more … And again, slowly and inevitably, all my before essence lulled by your such natural presence begins to like this cruel consciousness …

What remained after you? Perhaps an empty flakonchik of hairspray, whether it is deliberate, whether incidentally forgotten by you in a window sill corner - as an immemorial rock painting in clear language female not always: “There were I“? Or, maybe, all this one thousand household trifles which you with inevitable energy every time carry here, stuffing then on lockers, displaying on tables, placing on corners, despite of my protests? Perhaps all these still live memories of each your day, each hour, every minute, carried out here? …

… You know, the day before yesterday at night when you slept in the neighboring room after numerous day efforts tight, I suddenly woke up and as it often happens in the depth of night when nothing day vain distracts and does not disturb, all the unshakable weight pure understanding that minutes are considered and you will not become soon, pressed down, nailed me to a pillow, wet from sudden sweat … What awful, nothing covered - the brain obscured by eternal affairs and cares, the heart anxious with something - naked touch slowly and ruthlessly leaving life. Here it I, still such live, and here it is the life walking away … I lay there, lonely and frightened of this sudden revelation, being afraid to move, and I to horror wanted to make everything that you were happy. Here and already tomorrow …

Each our meeting - as any firm development of all under the Sun: it has a beginning, the quiet, sobering middle and the inconsistent, sad end joyful, full of the best expectations. There`s nothing to be done - the law of a genre under the name life, it is also not necessary to oppose to it.

The first days - mine. I greedy peer at your image, trying to discover it among one hundred others images. The little, confused, ridiculously twisting on the parties the head and such woman, native during that instant. I greedy listen attentively to your voice. I catch each your gesture, each movement. I do not hurry to tell and tell something. I know that tomorrow - the best day, mine, and I do not hurry it.

You for the 100-th time tell old news which I heard from you by phone, only a week and to two that, and suddenly I, the man, I comprehend incomprehensible female truth, and even I like it: it is not important that, it is important as. To me it is not important that you tell what I perfectly know. To me it is important how you do it. And what it is done by you. And it does not irritate me at all … I know

Ya that in a week I will already flood banks because of all these lovely trifles. I will be brought to white heat and your indisputable desire as the new hostess to dominate in the house, equipping everything on the, of course, the most correct harmony. Both your congenital obstinacy, your unshakable feeling of correctness, and your irresistible passion to purchases. I will abuse myself, I will try, I will bring up and I know that nothing at me will turn out. Just we, consanguineous, such similar in many respects and such different. Also it is necessary to accept it as long before us the come true reality what it is impossible to me … in any way than we are similar

B? With one person on this planet I did not experience such joyful coincidence, organic merge of ideas of this difficult life, its vision. Almost any your voiced understanding read and seen by a joyful tuning fork, in unison to my heart, is given also in me. Namayavshis among others and alien, silly and clever, among modern cacophony of meanings, views and tastes when almost everyone needs to explain what you, eventually, meant, every time feeling bitterness of disappointment that later to understand tons of words that you so told nothing, did not inform and everything was vain, we still take of each other the hint and our words do not need the translation.

Or, for example, you the love to all imparted to me live far from you seems to me equal sincere relationship, in autonomous swimming by the sea under the name “life“ while I - only your pupil, your pupil also will blindly obey you, whimsically applying for independence.

… For the second day we went to feed with the remained water-melon of a neighbour`s horse, and you were in such joyful ecstasy of this mountain of natural beauty and harmony as if the child, and how careful lips greedy snatched out juicy water-melon crusts from your hand. And I again, exulting and being dissolved in this nirvana, felt a touch of the heart to yours because just the same pleasure was tested also by it. You kept saying everything “Darling, poor, beautiful“ and carefully ironed the big horse head, and to me it was so good as if words intended to me and you ironed me. Which ironed to me hair, maybe, years to twenty five that.

After that we went on an overgrown footpath and you pointed a finger to the right and on the left, on flowers and herbs, unmistakably remembering their names and than they are useful, and I rejoiced to a sound of your voice again and to how we are similar. Warmed still hot August sun, in a grass became stupid the grasshopper in love chirred, already familiar horse in the distance chewed a grass, for certain remembering the most tasty water-melon crusts and what nice those man and the woman, and my tired heart pokoyno rocked on waves of happiness and a tranquil pleasure from relationship of our souls.

Our culinary addictions extremely coincided: at least unhealthy, at most useful. Also it would be silly to reproach us that under this gastronomic accompaniment of healthy nutrition and a prevoznosheniye vegetable over an animal you, every time going to the market, came back with some sausage smoked very much - “so, only to try“, the bought water-melon and a semi-kilogram package of sunflower seeds immature in a hurry, and I - with a jar of a shish kebab and a liter bottle of ice beer. And we, habitually for a mantra singsong about tasty and healthy food, in sauce from memories of the past, began to exterminate all this ruthlessly. Then I told “Generally sausage I do not eat“, and you “And I keep all year to a diet“, we crafty winked the friend the friend and, cursing ourselves for an unusual gluttony, left everyone to ourselves.

We went out of town, fed black swans, rode a swing, ate ice cream, were photographed, bleached walls and a ceiling, rolled on a grass, collected pears, laughed at the neighbor who being drunk got lost in own yard remembered those who are not present any more, and those who sometime will not become. And never squabbled …

But crazy happiness of the first days, gradually flowed in the sober middle when the reason got the best of feelings, and the late middle was imperceptibly melted into the end full of bad presentiments. Presentiments of fast parting. The hot August sun ascended in the east, stepped through a zenith and inevitably hanged over the West.

Week turned out such huge, having contained in itself a year concentrate of happiness and pleasure, and such short that left you to be perplexed: how, and all this? No, I do not trust. Cannot be …

I here again, in midnight calm I put in a taxi and I carry the most beautiful woman to the station. Her gray hair was touchingly disheveled, and she does not even try to put habitual gesture them in order. Features strained, pointed. Hands nervously finger a scarf. A minute more to that such cheerful and happy, it now absolutely another.

I help it to climb up in the car. I see its silhouette in a corridor. The train starts. One hand I wave it in a window, another I brush away a treacherous tear and almost aloud I speak: “See you soon, mother“ …