12/07/2024
She was eighty-two; the days had long passed. She didn't live for herself, counting every ruble. Her life revolved around her grandson and children, and she spent her time crocheting socks. But often, she couldn't sleep at night, tossing and sighing.
It was a painful reality, infinitely sad. To her children, she seemed like a burden. They assigned her a corner, fed her simple meals, and tucked her to sleep behind the curtain by the stove.
The son-in-law often complained to his daughter, "How much longer, Nastya? I can't endure this 'happiness' much more!" The daughter stayed silent, only occasionally expressing her sadness: "We'll face the same fate when we're old, Dad."
Grandma's grandson was a source of joy after a long wait. He read to her while everyone else slept. He brought lunch and sweet cookies to her corner, asking about his grandfather and sharing his own thoughts.
"Tell me about the war! Did you fight too? Have you seen the Germans? Were you in captivity?" "Oh, you're funny, Kolka," she chuckled. "Your grandfather fought near Moscow. But he didn't come back."
"I haven't learned to hide grief under my heart, Kolyunya. War is a harsh reality. God forbid!" "Hey, Ba, no need to cry!" The granddaughter and grandson hugged her, making life feel less bitter in a seemingly callous world.
Grandma often dreamt about her grandfather, feeling a growing difficulty in saying "No." A pain lingered under her rib... Until the day she went away, seemingly to freedom. In her old chest, they found a note addressed to "Kole!"
Two pairs of knitted socks, a stash of dry bread, a few balls of yarn, and a photo of grandma and grandpa. No one cried except the grandson, holding the cherished items, remembering the old man.
He pressed them to his chest, feeling the priceless treasures. The pain pierced like a dagger, as if there was a current running through his veins. The boy, only twelve, was wiser than others: Stale bread is not scary; a troubled soul is more terrible.
©️Svetlan
