Thoughts

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One, two, one, hello? Can you hear me back there? Good. So: we're in a time when the harvest is done with scythes, and the country is ruled by desperate farmers. We're in twenty-first-century Poland. Two in the back, please don't pick your nose! Soon even such tasks will be done automatically... Well, let's just listen to the story Kasia wants to tell us today.

Birthday. Again. The table, plates, and cake, which no one will want to eat because it's expired and cheaper (it's tradition), will be brought out onto the small terrace, and then the royal aubergine will take center stage anyway. Of course, the most important thing are the guests, especially mine, who don't work as much as they can: the farmer, the Almost Farmer, the farmer, the farmer's widow, the farmer's wife, and the grave digger. Good company – no need, it'll be fun again.

Let's start with what to wear. Ideally, something incredibly elegant, like a black suit à la James Bond, plus the traditional accessory of a red and white tie. I, however, prefer simplicity, so I chose a slightly sweaty mesh undershirt and then used some city gel (bought two years ago during a class trip to Rabka) to demonstrate my maturity – after all, I was turning fifteen.

After entering the kitchen, I saw remnants of the sandpaper used to wrap presents, and my mother trying to stuff something plastic into a matchbox, festively decorated with Lion King stickers. Upon seeing me, she immediately stopped what she was doing and, with a greasy smile, served me an equally greasy and calorie-dense breakfast. During the meal, Almost a Farmer ran into the kitchen, grinning, holding my mother's mohair beret trimmed with old scraps of underwear, mine, no less. He shouted that he needed a box for this gift, and upon seeing me, he immediately ran out of the kitchen, carelessly throwing the gift into the sink. I pretended I hadn't seen anything and began to carefully chew my breakfast. It was always the case that I received well wishes in front of everyone, and each person gave me a gift separately, speaking as loudly as possible so the neighbors could hear. Today would be no different.

When the morning was over (Almost Farmer had completely lost his temper), preparations for this extraordinary day began. Mom suggested I play with Pinkie Pie, thinking I was bored (which wasn't true; at the time, I was deeply absorbed in reading Almost Farmer's diary—he wrote that when he grew up, he would go to college and become a barrel maker). I went outside and went for a long walk with Pinkie Pie.

Walking down the main street of America, I didn't see anyone. It's hard to see anyone this time of year; occasionally, a tourist would drive by and take a photo of the village sign. It was hot. I decided it was time to head back. Pinkie Pie doesn't like long walks; after a few minutes, he would start to rebel and sit in the middle of the road. It was well after noon when I got home.

Amused voices could be heard from the gate. These were probably my guests, who had somehow slipped into the house before me. My uncle (a farmer) laughed softly, having come all the way from Cold Vodka to join the others in savoring the drink appropriate to his town's name. Grandma and Grandpa (the farmer's wife and the farmer) come because they can always stay overnight, and then they both have a chance to complain and vent to someone. Mom was getting impatient because the grave digger, who was Dad's friend, still wasn't in sight, and Almost Farmer ran out to meet Pinkuś. He didn't hesitate to mention that he had less than a glass of juice, a cookie, and a whole cake left for me. I thought it was a good start – last year, my uncle was lying on the table, demonstrating how to perform CPR. He's still traumatized by the time he tried to administer CPR to himself.

I decided to present myself in the best light possible for the guests, so I left the Almost Farmer with Pinkie Pie at the gate and walked onto the porch with my head held high. It started with a statement that I'd grown a lot, matured – in short, the usual saying. Then came the gifts. My farmer uncle gave me soap (he said hygiene was very important at my age, and I knew he simply didn't want to overpay), my grandmother and grandfather gave me a "kiss" (my grandfather gave me an "air kiss" – I suggested this myself), my Almost Farmer gave me an apple juice container (with a beret inside with bits of underwear – admittedly, original, perfect for a formal outfit), and my mother gave me a matchbox (carefully wrapped in sandpaper) in which I found a guitar pick. My uncle said this would allow me to portion out identical portions of soap each day, which would make it last longer. The presents this year were nothing compared to what I got last year—a brand new tractor engine. Last year's gift was the result of a lot of thought put into it by the grave digger, who hadn't shown up for my fifteenth birthday yet. My mother was very disappointed—she loved to ask him for the hundredth time about my father—what he was like, what he wore as a child, and whether he really had to "leave us." My mother disliked the word "die." It seemed too common to her, and as befits her (i.e., an important lady), she tried to use lofty words.

After the soda bottles were emptied, the mood in the group improved significantly. My uncle began singing cheerfully and then tried to dance to the rhythm. He even asked my mother to tango in what he called a modern style, but my intelligent mother heartily declined. Grandpa gladly took her place, so Almost Farmer decided to go to bed. My mother and grandmother began chatting about what had been on a certain radio station recently, and I busied myself digging in the dirt with my shoe. I soon abandoned this very interesting activity and decided to pick at a piece of cake with my finger. When I got bored with that too, I went for a short walk. That's when I came across a man dressed in his best; he looked like he wanted to talk. I asked, casually, if he needed any help. He said I couldn't help him because it was "his internal and entirely spiritual matter." I didn't want to argue with him, so I slowly walked away. However, just around the bend into some lousy street, this male figure ran up to me and said enigmatically that I absolutely must use soap. I didn't attach any particular importance to this; I walked away slowly and thoughtfully. When I returned to the porch, Grandpa was asleep in the armchair, and Uncle was comfortably sprawled on the table. Mom and Grandma were already asleep, and Almost Farmer was snoring softly in his room. It was just me. I looked at the presents again, quietly uttered a wish, and that was it. I was actually happy. Everything will be as usual again; from tomorrow on, I'll be in a better frame of mind.

That's where Kasia ends her story today. What's the moral of this? Don't talk to strangers, they'll just confuse you. Thank you for your delightfully feigned observation.