There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.
Albert Einstein
2010 Russia. Krasnoyarsk Region
From 8.20 to noon.
Siberian summer morning on the bank of the river in those lands where I grew up and had a carefree time, was especially sunny that day. Sitting on the grass, wet with dew, pressing my knees to my chest and staring into the distance, I was saying goodbye in my mind’s eye. Painfully familiar, frozen in the beauty of nature, the view seemed to be new and exciting. I was watching the slow stream course, along the steep banks framed with endless coniferous forest, rocking in the wind. It went beyond the horizon, and the tops of centuries-old trees mingled, forming the green boundary line, separating the earth from the sky.
I took a deep breath of the cool, refreshingly clean air, which was saturated with pine needles and slight savor of the swamp dampness that came from the reeds growing under the cliffs. At night they turned into an improvised scene for frogs and grasshoppers, and these small representatives of the fauna sang in sync so loudly and annoyingly that I wanted to get my father’s gun from the utility room and shoot them all. I wish had known how to shoot a gun.
– Well, Anna, are you ready to go? – My mom asked timidly, standing a little bit away from me and waiting. She distracted me from contemplating the beauty of nature, disrupting the order of the farewell.
My mother is kind to everyone, too kind. She has lived most of her life, caring more often of her errant husband and children than about herself. She had two children, me and my elder brother. By the time of my departure he had already managed to start a family for the second time.
By the way, about my brother. When I looked at him, the thought involuntarily sneaked into my head that everything should be the other way around: I wish we could change places – and here it is, the ideal of a brother and sister. Brother weak and sentimenta – qualities more appropriate for women, – unlike me, who was driven by madness, “relative devil-may-care attitude” (it shouldn’t be confused with indifference), the eternal desire to make my case in the fight against injustice and gain my point, which is usually characteristic of men with a strong will power. Though, these traits of my character manifested themselves only when I entered the adolescence, when the familiar world turned upside down. Having grown up, I could afford to make fun of my brother, forgetting that he was older and – as it should be – smarter. He did not take offense and was not impertinent to me, he did not know how to be impudent.
Mom took my hand, and we headed to the sixth model of “Zhiguli” in white, parked near the crooked lath fence.
My father was waiting for us in the car, thoroughly checking the contents of the glove compartment, trying to see if he had forgotten anything. Without a doubt, he could be called “the one who is fancy to forget the most needed things.” What clouds he had his head in, was known only to himself, and it was from him that I unconsciously adopted this quality.
That morning, I looked back at the green forests spread out across the river, swept my eyes over the old wooden house full of memories, with blue shutters and a pointed tiled roof and got into the car.
In about six hours we would have reached the international airport of Krasnoyarsk, where the passenger Boeing would take me thousands of kilometers away from my routine life.
I know that long journeys lie heavy on my mom. She was sitting in the front seat and on the way to the airport she was thinking how to get back to her blossoming garden as quickly as possible.
“Have I put enough fertilizer in the dill bed?” She was wondering in her thoughts. And later she recalled about carrots and radishes as well; their weeding then had to be postponed.
Yes, I knew her thoughts, as well as the thoughts of many other people who I spoke to. Soon I will tell you how I did it.
When the sunset notified her about the completion of work in the vegetable garden, she went to the little garden with the bushes of currant, honeysuckle, gooseberries, sea buckthorns (it seems to me that there grew even some perennial shrubs I don’t remember exactly), and gathering part of the crop in a large iron mug, under the rays of the Siberian sunset, she enjoyed the taste of her own homegrown berries.
With unabashed pride my father not only thought, but also spoke about his night take, falling silent from time to time, picturing himself – what he would be like tomorrow – again, having his head in the clouds, known only for him.
– Have you seen what a huge sturgeon I caught at night? – he asked, driving into the highway, passing the town exit, then pressed the gas pedal harder, and the streets of my home town were left behind, remaining in memory for many years. – I managed to salt it up and got it to the fridge, so that it will be ready for tomorrow, and your mom and I will taste it. And there are no sturgeons of this kind in Israel.
