We bought a house in the village ...

We bought a house in the village. He was sold by a young couple, they say the parents did not need a summer house, and grandmother died a year ago ... After the death of the old woman, no one visited the house, only they came to sell it. We ask, will you take things? They are in response - why do we need this stuff, we took away the icons, and you can throw out the rest. The husband looked at the walls, where the squares from the icons brightened.

- But what about the photographs?

Women, men, children looked from the walls of the village hut ... A whole dynasty. Previously, they loved to decorate walls with photographs.

I remember you will come to grandmother, and she has a new picture in a frame appeared, mine and sisters.

“I,” says my grandmother, “I will wake up in the morning, I will bow to my parents, kiss my husband, smile at the children, wink at you — and the day has begun.”

When the grandmother was gone, we added her photo to the wall and now, arriving in the village (which became known as the summer residence), always in the morning my grandmother wears a kiss. And it seems that the house immediately smells of pies and baked milk. And the grandmother’s presence is felt. We never saw grandfather, he died in the war, but his picture hangs in the center, grandmother talked a lot about him, and at that time we looked at the picture and it seemed to us that grandfather was sitting with us, it was only strange that he was young, and my grandmother is already old. And now her photograph is hanging next to him ...

For me, these faded photographs are so valuable that if I had the choice of what to take, I would certainly have taken the photographs. And here they were not only lonely left on the wall and in albums, but also cynically recorded in the trash. But the master is the master.

After the purchase, we started cleaning and you know ... The hand did not rise to throw out the things of this woman who lived for her children and grandchildren, and they just left her ...
How do I know that? She wrote letters to them. At first I wrote and sent, without an answer. And then she stopped sending and three neat piles of love and tenderness rested in a chest of drawers. I confess, they read ... And I understood why she did not send them. She was afraid that they would be lost, and then they are safe, she thought that after her death they would still read ... And in the letters the whole story, about the years of life in the war, about her parents, grandparents and great-great-great - she retold what her grandmother told her so that family values ​​would not die, to remember. How to throw this out?

- Come on, will we take her to the children? - with tears I suggested to my husband. - This can not be thrown out!

- Do you think they are better than grandchildren? - Husband extended doubtfully. - Never, there, didn’t appear ...

- Maybe they are old, sick, you never know ...

- I'll call them, I’ll ask.

Through the grandchildren they recognized the phone and heard a peppy female voice:

- Oh, you throw it all away! She sent us these letters in packs, we have not even read recently! she had nothing to do there, so she had fun ...

The husband didn’t even listen, he hung up the phone. He says that if she stood by her side now, she would strangle her!

- Do you know what? You are a writer, so put these letters into stories!

- They will then show ...

“Yes, I am sure they don’t read books like that!” - the husband grunted. “But for the sake of you I’ll go to these, shit, I’ll take written permission from them.”

And he really went and designed everything notarially. Meanwhile, I got to the underground. You know, in village houses right from the hut you go down under the floor and it’s cool there, like a cellar. And there are jars of pickles, jams ... And on each jar, a piece of paper is glued with a faded inscription: "Vanya is his beloved breasts" - Vanya died ten years ago, the jar was not useful; "Sonechka chanterelles"; "Pickles for Anatoly"; "Forest raspberries for Sasha" ...

P.S. In total, Anna Lukyanovna had 6 children. They all died before her (mostly accidents), except for the last, late daughter, who wrote everything in the trash ...

And my mother expected the children to come with her grandchildren, carefully rolled up the cans, signed with love ... The last cans of mushrooms are dated last year, she was 93 years old at that time. 93 years old !!! And she went to the forest to gather grandmothers of mushrooms and berries! And they...



Author Alice Atreidas