Torn memories

And

my name is... Let me be Kasia to you. It might sound funny, but I don't like my name; I don't use it every day with my friends. Not even with my dad. And I'm Kasia to my brother, too.

I've been sad lately, probably after Mother's Day. All the girls in my class were running to flower shops and trinket shops to buy something for their mom. I'd like to make my own mom happy too... Some do it casually, as if it weren't in their best interest to give them anything. I don't know why, but I can't understand it.

I remember once, when I was about 7, I rebelled and didn't come home for Mother's Day at 3 p.m.—as I'd promised—but at 9 p.m. I remember she had tears in her eyes. Yes... I remember those eyes. Sad, nervous. When she saw me in the doorway, a chair fell with a loud crash as she was getting up. She ran over and hugged me... I apologized. I don't even remember why I rebelled. In my memories, I find only this warmth...

So that Mother's Day, I was feeling down. Everywhere, everyone was buying various bouquets, from roses to lilies of the valley and orchids. I reached into my pocket – 7 złoty for a single rose, dark crimson with a trim.

As I bought it, I was reminded of my mother's previous holidays... They've been almost the same for nine years, only I'm older and understand more. Maybe I have more heart, too?

With that dark rose, I walked through the noisy city. I passed joyful people, everyone smiling. Was I the only one feeling down that day?

I entered the stairwell and immediately heard the sound of the radio on – a sign that Dad had returned. My brother was probably still in the recreation room. I threw my backpack on the sofa in the room and, heading towards the front door, I peeked into the kitchen. "Dad, I'm going to Mom's." He looked sadly at me, nodded, and delved back into the fantasy novel.

"Lord, rest her soul"... the familiar, etched inscription on the gray tombstone wounded me once again. I gently placed the rose down and lost myself in prayer. After a few minutes, I began to talk to my mother in my mind. By the time I got home, dusk was approaching.

Before I fell asleep, I thought about my mother. I don't think I can even recall her entire appearance. Dad hid old photos in a box in the attic so that the pain of losing her would be less. I wish time could return, that Mom wouldn't have gone to work but taken time off, as she had planned... I didn't have time to tell her so many things... Although... now I know what I want to say. Then a kiss on the cheek and the words, "I love you, Mom," would have been enough...

II

As always, even though the Polish teacher was supposed to ask me questions, I didn't run away. She didn't know what to give me. She's been our homeroom teacher for about three months now because that cool, older teacher is in the hospital and left the school. All hell broke loose. I answered all the questions correctly, but... "

You're getting between 4 and 5." I don't know what to give you; I'd like to consult with your mother. Why didn't your mother come to the parent-teacher conference?

I froze. The entire class froze. The silence was so oppressive, crushing me with its weight. I felt the teacher's gaze; the eyes of everyone in the class were focused solely on me. I felt hot, stuffy, weak... I couldn't get a word out. The Polish teacher nervously started tapping her pen on the desk.

"Come on, *****, tell me why? Maybe you didn't tell her about the parent-teacher conference? Do you know how rude that is? What do you have to hide?" Two Cs in Polish, one failing grade in math... Why don't you say anything when I ask you for an answer? Give me your phone number, I'll call your parents today!

I felt tears welling up in my eyes, a strange lump in my throat preventing me from saying a word. Someone I wouldn't have expected came to my aid. Those years of persecution and insults, being blamed for my mother's death...

- Ma'am, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Kasia...

- As far as I know, she's not Kasia, but *****

- I'm sorry - he continued politely - but we call her Kasia

- She's *****

At that moment, tears streamed down my cheeks, and the teacher started shouting at me, at him, about putting on a show. I'd already been standing at the blackboard for 15 minutes.

- Listen to me, damn it! Karol, furious now, rose from his chair and slammed his book on the desk, silencing the murmurs that had spread throughout the classroom. "Kasia doesn't have a mother! Do you have to be so damn cruel to her?"

She froze. She looked from me to him. Her cheeks began to redden, her indignation overpowering the meaning of his words.

"How are you talking to me, you little brat? You're nothing, do you understand? You get minus 40 points for speaking vulgarly to the teacher, 10 for shouting at the teacher, 20 for your behavior!"

"I can't stay here any longer . . . I can't stay here any longer," I thought as they shouted at each other. I ran out of the classroom. Opening the door, I tripped and almost collided with the principal. I ran out of the school. The computer science teacher, who was on his way to class, caught me. Tearful and shaken, I led me into the classroom. The principal was there, already taking Karol to the rug. I gave him a grateful look. As I walked to my desk, I whispered, "Thanks." It was the first time he'd smiled at me so sincerely, without mockery. Finally, the harassment was over! Maybe I'll remember this class well when I leave for another school? The teacher just looked at me with a look of confusion, because it turned out Karol wasn't lying after all . . .

III

Yes . . . A lot of unpleasant and sad things have happened in my life lately. I feel like my entire life is one long series of misfortunes, although there are some pleasant moments, which I try to enjoy and make the most of.

After the whole incident with the teacher, I stopped going to school. I went to the Bieszczady Mountains for a week to visit my grandmother Marcela. She's a lovely old lady who always calls me by my first name, even the three-year-old children from the village. I love being there, especially in the summer, because I can escape the mundane reality. There are forests and fields everywhere, only two families have TVs, and water is drawn from a well—it's like stepping back in time several decades. I got there by bus because my dad sold his car to renovate our apartment, as, among other things, mold had spread on the walls. The bus stop is 3 km from the village. Walking along the sandy road, I felt like everything was leaving me. I felt free as a bird with that one bag in my hand and a light sweater on my shoulder.

I walked down a narrow side path. I was looking for a large, old stone. It was where it always was. I sat on it—I'd done this for as long as I could remember. I placed my bag beside it. I leaned against a tree and closed my eyes. "I'm in paradise..."

The sound of a dog barking brought me out of my reverie. A group of small children passed nearby with bouquets of poppies and cornflowers. I watched their smiling faces until they disappeared around the bend.

I opened the door. The familiar smell of wood brought me back to earth. "Yes... Now I'll have to take care of Marcela..." I thought as I heard her footsteps.

Dinner time was approaching. I set the table and placed an old vase with fresh flowers I'd picked along the way in the middle. I helped Marcela out of bed, led her to a chair, and helped her sit down. She had changed a lot in the six months since I'd last seen her. She looked older than she was, skin hanging from her gaunt face. Her hands were weak, unable to lift a full bowl of soup. There was no denying it—the cancer was spreading, and she still refused to go to the hospital.

On the third night, a strange moan woke me from my sleep. Terrified and upset, I ran to my grandmother's bedroom. Tears in her eyes, moaning, and trembling made me run to the neighbors' house without my slippers. I started banging on the door, screaming for them to call the ambulance. Within moments, I was at the phone. My hand, shaking with frustration, clutched the receiver. "The call cannot be connected. The call cannot . . . " I slammed the receiver down. I called again—silence answered. The distraught neighbor led me to the kitchen, and she tried calling herself. On the fifth try, I finally succeeded.

I couldn't go with Marcela in the ambulance because they had to connect an EKG machine. I couldn't sleep until morning, staring at the ceiling, thinking about my grandmother. I know full well that this disease is incurable. They gave her two more weeks to live.

I returned home. Because of my brother, only my father went to the hospital every day. I lived in a state of lethargy, mechanically performing all the household chores. I was afraid. I don't even know why I was so afraid... of her leaving. My grandmother's death was a foregone conclusion; only time...

Suddenly, I woke up. My father entered the hall. I jumped to my feet, eager to find out about Marcela's condition as quickly as possible. When I crossed the threshold, I saw him standing by the dresser under the mirror. He looked at me. A chill ran down my spine, and for some reason, a lump formed in my throat. I remember that look from somewhere... Yes... it was nine years ago. SHE had come to reap the harvest again...

IV

The funeral took place where she wanted – in her village. The body had been transported the day before the ceremony. A strange and unfamiliar emptiness enveloped her house. I didn't hear the familiar shuffling sound when I opened the door. I didn't hear the familiar, kind voice as I entered the kitchen. I reached out and gently ran my hand across the countertop. A thin layer of dust had covered everything in her absence. I couldn't hold back anymore. Tears streamed down my cheeks. My hand moved faster and faster over the furniture she often stood and sat on. I reached the bedroom. I painfully turned the photographs of her and her husband back to the door – they reminded me of my mother and those old photos hidden in the attic. I opened the wardrobe. The hinges creaked horribly, but I couldn't hear it anymore. From the very back and corner, I pulled out an old box. I opened it... Everything lay there just as it had when I returned from the meadow after playing with Mariusz and Aneta (grandmother's neighbors' children). It had been so long ago... I took the dried flowers in my hand and crumbled them. My drawings, which had yellowed slightly, depicted the entire family together – me, my brother, my mother, my father, my grandmother, my grandfather – all standing smiling next to a tree or a house. I pulled a pen from the dresser drawer and, increasingly distraught, corrected all the drawings. Finally, on every page, I was left with me, my father, and my brother, with sad faces; instead of the sun, there was a large black spot... I approached the bed. As if with apprehension, I touched the soft sheets. Immediately, like lightning, the scene from that night flashed before my eyes. "Marcela lay here..." I don't know how I found myself in my father's arms in an instant. I cried like a little child along with my brother. Dad, seeing our tears, couldn't hold it back. The three of us cried for a long time, sitting and cuddling on the stylish old couch.

The next day, I didn't want to get up. I slowly sat down on the bed, put on my slippers, and went to the kitchen. They were already sitting down at breakfast. I watched them eat without touching anything. "Today is the end of the year, and I'm here..." I thought, and left the table. "It's good that Dad's friend will be accepting my certificate."

Before the funeral, we said goodbye to Grandma in her coffin with a silent prayer, gazing at her cold face. Even though she had died, I still felt that kindness radiating from her. I longed so much for her to suddenly open her eyes, sit up, and say, "It's okay, I'm with you," as she used to say whenever problems arose. Now she's no longer with us... She won't say that anymore... She won't offer comfort with her warm voice... I'll never see her smiling eyes again when she said, "I'm so old already!" even though she didn't feel that way in spirit. This body was decrepit...

The moment arrived. They closed the coffin and carried it to the chapel. I was surprised by the number of people who came, as they all knew Marcela personally. We sat in front of the coffin. I don't want to recount the entire mass, because even the priest wept at our tears. When I turned around, I saw that everyone – more or less furtively – was wiping their eyes with a handkerchief, even the men.

The young boys slowly lifted the coffin and carried it to the front of the chapel. We walked at the front of the procession. I could no longer see anything through the glass curtain of tears. We walked for a long time – enough for me to control my emotions, because the worst was yet to come.

We stopped right in front of the grave where my grandfather lay. It was open, waiting for the next coffin. The priest said what he was supposed to say, so it was my turn. I was to hang a gold cross on a nail, directing my words and thoughts towards the deceased. I approached the coffin slowly, silence flowing in from all directions. I knelt down. Tears welled in my eyes, then suddenly streamed down my face, dripping onto the light, varnished wood. I couldn't utter a word. I burst into tears and clung tightly to the coffin. Surprised people stared at me, unsure what to do. As I clutched the coffin tighter and tighter, sobbing aloud, I said, maybe even screamed, "Grandma! Don't leave us! Please stay! How will we manage without you?! Marcelaa!" At this point, I broke down so completely that I couldn't bear it any longer. Dad forcibly pulled me away from the coffin, grabbing my arms, then my wrists, as I struggled. I kept screaming, wanting to pour out all the grief, hoping it was just a nightmare that the alarm would wake me from. But it wasn't a dream... The women standing nearby burst into tears at the sight of my despair. Some had to leave nearby because they were fainting. What could I say?

They slid the coffin into the prepared space in the grave. They began to brick everything up with small, even bricks, shaped like a semicircle. After a moment, they slid the marble slab in place. Marcela's friends began laying wreaths and covered the gold plaque with the inscription:

"May they rest in peace.

AMEN."

Swollen from crying, I no longer had the strength to cry; I simply stared blankly at everything happening around me. My life had once again taken a toll on me, robbing me of everything I held dear. My legs would buckle whenever anyone spoke the deceased's name. But finally, the end had come. Everyone had already dispersed. My brother and I went to my grandmother's wooden house, and my father went to speak with a priest friend.

When the three of us were together, we didn't say a word to each other. Each of us was dealing with Marcela's death individually and in our own way. We didn't even say "Goodnight." Do we have a premonition that none of us will sleep tonight?

V

I woke up early this morning, probably around 6 a.m. I set the table, put fresh flowers from the garden in a vase, and made breakfast. My brother was the first to peek into the kitchen, surprised by the sight of such a hearty breakfast, since we were supposed to be home in three hours.

Finally, my dad arrived. When he saw us playing in the kitchen, he smiled, spread his arms, and we ran and cuddled up to him like little children. We didn't talk about the previous day at the table. Now my dad was packing us back up, my brother had gone to thank the neighbors, and what about me? I think I've missed the newspapers, the shop windows, the rhythm of the city, and my friends. As I finish my cereal coffee, I come to the conclusion that what ends, something begins. And that life must go on...