Dawno temu, na początku ubiegłego wieku, w małej wiosce niedaleko Tuli, mieszkała dziewczyna o imieniu
Wszedłem do piekarni z pustym brzuchem i sercem, które było jeszcze bardziej puste. Miałem zaledwie osiem
Wspomnienie o złamanej duszy nie zostaje łatwo zapomniane. W jej dzieciństwie ojciec uderzał ją bez litości
{{Angel Guardianship}}
%
An angel
A delicate child’s hand reaches through the fence mesh toward ripe strawberries.
I pretend not to notice, continuing to weed the onions.
«Hello, Aunt Galya!» Aleksha’s voice rings out.
«Hello, dear,» I smile back. «Come in, help me pick the berries.»
The mesh sags; I lift the edge, and my Angel, as I call Aleksha, swoops into the garden. Right behind him, puffing, squeezes a huge dog named Grom, twice his size. I place a large bowl in the middle of the bed. Aleksha carefully picks the juiciest berries. His flaxen hair, eyes like the sky in May, and sharp shoulder blades like wings on his back make him seem angelic. He’s five, kind-hearted, and sensitive.
«Alesha, why was your mom yelling this morning?»
«She wanted to paint the stools, but I knocked over the can,» he sighs. «I tried to make Grom’s house pretty but couldn’t hold it.»
«It’s all right. We’ll have tea now and then go to the store for new paint.»
Without prompting, my Angel washes his hands and sits by the window. He picks strawberries with cream and a warm pie.
{{IMAGE 1}}
The clouds glow gold from below. Everything quiets down, resting from the day’s bustle. Fish are biting, and soon a pair of carp are splashing in the bucket. Dinner is ready for my cat.
Today, my Angel visited. He is now forty-two. A respected doctor, a surgeon. Several times a year, he visits the graves of his mother and grandmother, then stops by my house with treats. Everyone calls him Alexander Petrovich, but to me, he will always be my Angel! Tall, broad-shouldered, with warm hands. Regardless of the season, he places a basket of strawberries on the table, sits by the window, and smiles. He still carefully washes his hands before eating, adjusts my headscarf as if I were his grandmother. His voice has become deeper, but his eyes still hold that same May sky. We drink tea with pies, silent, as if the thirty-seven years between us had never passed.
Then, he stands up, hugs me tightly, whispers, «Thank you, Aunt Galya,» and leaves, leaving behind a white coat, folded neatly like bird wings.
%
— An angel A delicate child’s hand reaches through the fence mesh toward ripe strawberries.
Olgę miłość odnalazła dość późno. Jej przyjaciółki były już dawno zamężne, a ona wciąż studiowała, nie
Po pracy Ludmiła nie spieszyła się do domu. Nikt jej tam nie czekał. Miała 50 lat, ale jej życie jakby
Dwadzieścia dwa lata po rozwodzie, Weronika wróciła do swojej rodzinnej wsi. Minęło sześć lat od jej
Od tygodnia narzeczony Swietłany, Anton, milczał. Do ich ślubu pozostały tylko trzy tygodnie.
Za stołem siedział mężczyzna, którego twarz wydała się znajoma, ale nie od razu przypomniała sobie, skąd go zna.
Rita przez cały dzień była w złym nastroju. Pokłóciła się z klientem i sprzeczała z koleżanką.