Even if on the way I will still hurt and bitterly, I will know exactly that tomorrow will come ...
88th, I two, I live in a military town in Haimashker in Hungary. Near Lake Balaton. Here is my father. But I do not know anything about these geographical points. My personal geography is a parisader at the entrance, where you can unwell a blanket and play by an ample, a walkway along the five-story building, on which you can ride on a three-wheeled cyclik, and the apartment on the third floor where my best friend of Renat lives. If we leave to play in the same crib and leave to drink tea into the kitchen, the developments of events are two: either I rush up and deceiving a friend with pokes, or love will wake in me, and I will hug him with all my youthful fervor. In any case, your tea will be interrupted by a wild roar - Renat protests against poop and hugs with equal power.
From Hungary in a pocket, I will take away only two memories: here Mom Renatika, Aunt Nafis, presses me frozen meat to forehead. It hurts me, I roar and through tears I see this package with beef.
- Do not cry, small, do not cry. Uncle Cyclist not specifically shot down you. There is nothing on the way to run when adults go.
And the second is my mother's face. Also through tears. At that time, I was sophisticated by the red-haired ants, whose house I spread my blanket with the assholes. Mom says something, shouts straight from the fifth floor, and malicious insects are moving on the feet and they do not want to run away. And even my Oerikhonian pipe does not convey to them simple truth - you are not happy about you ...
***
Here is the 97th year, here I moved to Moscow from Siberia, but without parents. New school, complex relationships, boycott, fights ...
I came to the class, taking my nose high, threatened the briefcase at the desk: I saw you all, assholes!
Mom called Intercord and screamed into the phone:
- Are you there? How in school?
- Fine. Four in Russian received, - I have been cheerfully.
Well, what else to say? I feel bad, mommy! I'm wildly terribly to go to this terrible school every day! I cry every night in the pillow, so as not to upset your grandparents! Take me, please!
I will not say all this mom. I will put the phone and go to learn Russian. Or write poems.
***
2013 ... the most increasing-painful. Afternoon. My parents duty in my apartment in turn, until finally, I do not reach the meaning of what is happening:
- Little crazy, or what? What do you think I'm from the window of Sigan, as soon as I stay in the apartment alone? SHAY !!! I paid the rent for three months ahead, so you can be calm for three months!
Parents look incredulously at me, gray, gone, pretend options:
- Okay, joking it seems, it means that you can really at home. I close the door behind them, check if another 8-month Matvey is sleeping, and I go to the balcony to smoke. For a long time I look down from the 17th floor:
- I wonder what it is ... I sharply take a step back. Well, you will come up with! Apartment for three months. More a hundred thousand. On one of my mercantility, I can survive ...
***
And here I am in my 2021th. I look back, Schushu pictures, gut the memories. Every time it seemed to me that the grief is immensely, as a whole space. Every time I did not believe that for me there may be at least some lucky tomorrow. Every time I suffered with all the frenzy, which was capable of. Many cried. Little ate. I stitched another day with a cross - thank God, you ended.
But the bumps on the forehead were healing.
And the ant bites went.
And the school once also ended.
And now I am even glad to see on the streets of my former classmates.
And in the spring, the skirts will appear again, it is encouraged by the heels on the asphalt, and the heart fits and grieves, as a flobge of the sparrows in the bushes, it's time to love! It is time to love!
And I think about the fact that even if I still hurt on the way and bitterly, I will know exactly that tomorrow will come once. I will stop and ask yourself: Do you remember this in a year? And after five? Ten? What do you think, will it also hurt or everything in this world of course?
And honestly will answer my questions. Over time, the disgraceable calendar leaves will remain in memory. Photos. Dates. Events. Persons. Feelings. Or not even feelings, but only memories of them.
And you will go ahead, with each step leaving farther and farther the girl, pressing a pack of frozen meat, of that teenager, writing poems about suffering, that young woman who stands on the balcony, looks from the 17th floor and Thinks:
- Interesting, what is it?
Go forward. In happy tomorrow.