Happy Christmas!

Step by step. Step by step. How many steps could there be? Once, when he was little, he counted. How many steps did he take from home to preschool? How many from the store? Sometimes it worked. Not always. But he tried. At one hundred, he'd get it wrong, go back to ninety, then skip ten again. Funny preschooler numbers. But he counted. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember the result now. Too bad... Besides... What difference would it make? Now he wasn't counting the steps home, and he still wished there were twice as many. Or three. But there weren't. Everyone, somewhere high in heaven, remained deaf to his pleas. (Oh my God! You exist...) Year by year, the steps grew bigger, not smaller. Year by year, he was closer than further. And he felt bad about it. He didn't have shit to say. "Damn it, Peter, could you please not use such language at home!" Yes, Mommy, of course. The boy would be good. He wouldn't talk dirty. After all, we learn from our own parents. Damn...

Home... An oasis of warmth and peace, a place you long to return to, long for. That's how it is in books. But not here. Here you have an old apartment building, a stairwell painted with immortal oil paint, worn, scribbled walls, the smell of cigarettes and joints quietly burning in the corner next to the basement. Home. And then? Then a massive door with four locks, so no one could break in. So no one could take anything. A dark, strong door. The door to a house. There's something to defend. Family warmth. Family warmth from a fireplace worth a few thousand. After all, that always needs protecting. Property. Family. A cozy apartment. In dreams. A tangle of shoes in the hallway. Scattered jackets on a rack. A dusty mirror. No time. It'll clean up some other time. Everything is so excessive. A lamp casting a yellow shadow. Yellow. A door. Installed during the communist era. A white frame, a glass door. Childhood memories? Yes! "Be careful, damn it, or you'll bump into the glass and have to pay to have a new one put in!"... The kitchen. A few cabinets, a large refrigerator. A sink. A gas stove. A brand new cornea. That's for the last bonus. For working overtime with my father. "How can you not appreciate that?!" I appreciate it. That there was something more important than me again. This time, a stupid table and two benches. "The kid's for you!" Thank you.... You didn't have to.... The window. Plastic, like all the others in the house. The curtain. Not the one sewn by Grandma. That one would look bad. In the eyes of the "trendy" neighbors. Flowers. Dried up. Watered only occasionally. Whenever you remember. Because you usually forget. Not just about the flowers. About everything else too. You just don't forget about the money. For you, man!

The living room. The carpet. The sofa. The fireplace. No one should know that the couch becomes a regular bed in the evening and the living room transforms into a completely ordinary parent's bedroom. But a living room is a must. It's foolish to lead your neighbors into "the room." Living room sounds better.

Your own door. If anything in this world is your own. If something can be owned. Can it be? No, probably not. It's not your own door. It's just a door. Plastered with posters. Dirty... as the mother says. Next to that mirror. Because the mirror is hers. It can be dirty. And the door is for him. It has to be clean. Even if it's the only one in the house... Mine - yours. There's no ours. Something for you, something for me. Not for us. There's me, you, him... There's no us. There's no family...

Two beds, a computer. A bookshelf. Two desks. To be fair. Two children, two of everything. Because they'll argue. They wouldn't argue if they knew that life could be lived that way. But they don't. After all, children learn from their parents. Congratulations on raising them! A sweet smile and thank you. Don't be shy. Do it. It will look nice...

Mother? Yes. Dyed hair. Makeup, if she has time. She works. Full-time. Success. That's a lot these days. Full-time! The pinnacle of a career! Ha ha ha... But she's also a mother standing in the kitchen, cooking dinner. A mother who can offer a kind word of encouragement. But that's only until the holidays, when she's reminded. Because usually not. Different views on parenting, apparently. Different in a child, different in a parent. "Don't you fucking talk back to me, because it hasn't even come to this point where children raise their parents!"

A father... But he's there. It has to look nice... He's there... But they only see him once a week. Such a job. Such a reality. What more do you want, kid?

A shared table... Easter basket in an expensive basket... It has to be beautiful.

And the tears you silently wipe away in your room. Tears of regret and bitterness... Why is it like this?

Such a reality...

What more do you want, kid?

Merry Christmas!

I wish you a Merry Christmas...