I burned the cherries in sugar. Not much, but a pot that needs to be thrown away. I'm furious. It's a good thing he's gone, or I'd have to listen to a good dose of lectures, which I know by heart.
They've turned shiny, like varnished, reddish, dark brown marbles, some wrinkled. They need to be thrown away. But the hand holding the pot froze for a moment. I looked at them. An old brick house, once red, now the same color as these cherries, came to mind. It exists because it still stands, chipped, but confident, having survived more than just the war. Back then, it trembled on its foundations, uncertain of the future. Later, it experienced terrible times, when the country flourished with massive concrete buildings all around it, and the meticulous masters erased it from the city map. He didn't give in. He had too much knowledge and experience to give in. He stayed.
Now those moments came back…
It was a wintry day, but a splashy one, because I think it was the end of February. I don't remember, but it was definitely heading towards early spring. Cold, gray, with bluish skies here and there.
We'd leave the house to do some shopping, but not every day. I was thrilled at the thought of taking the bus.
I looked in the mirror; I always did, probably since birth.
In the mirror stood a little girl in a cherry-red coat with a gray rabbit-skin collar. The hood and sleeves were also trimmed like that. It's just a shame there wasn't a muff, a fluffy rabbit ball, instead of gloves on a string.
Market day in a small town brings people out of their homes. The market is far away, so the return trip, with its full baskets and shopping bags, is usually made by city buses.
There's still plenty of time before the first bus stop, so we crossed the cobblestone road to the other side. There are a few small shops there. I love shop windows. And back then, I had a special appetite for them. My nose was glued to the window, and I could stand there for hours.
It's gorgeous, pinned to a white cardboard box. A girl in a pink skirt and a boy in blue shorts, holding hands under a cherry-red umbrella. If only this brooch were mine, if only... No, I can't even imagine the moment when I pin it to my clothes.
We'd returned from the market with vegetables and meat from the butcher, but firmly on my ring finger was a ring with a very blue stone, almost sapphire, framed by a golden lace of openwork metal. In that glass, I could see the sky on a hot summer day.
Cherry cherries, dark from burning, wafted a bitter scent through the kitchen. I tear my eyes away from them. Outside, it's a rainy, cold day, even in July, the middle of summer. People under umbrellas hurried, going about their business. Some hopeless commercial on the radio.
Yes, today is my 49th birthday. I looked at the calendar again—July 18th. Four plus nine is thirteen. My children were born under that number, January 13th and October 13th.
And now I'm waiting for another child, theirs, my granddaughter. May her mother be happier than I am. May she speak of her as the poet did—"she first showed me the moon."
The doorbell rings. I quickly throw away the burnt cherries and crack open the window.
It's just my mother with a cherry rose for my 49th birthday.
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