Алекс Бранд - We will meet again

Alex Brand

We will meet again

Where to begin? Perhaps, from the fact that today is especially beautiful sunset. The magnificent riot of heavenly colors, from pale blue to glowing pink-red. And all this is permeated with white fluffy strokes of clouds slowly floating in the inaccessible height of the clouds. We can see how after few movements of the invisible brush in the hands of celestial wind-artist these foggy white strokes assembling… Look! The face… The fathomless eyes slowly opened and looked down for a moment – a blue dip on a white, surrounded by the tongues of the sunset flame. Another moment – and they will disappear to be opened in another place, to look again and again.

Why not? We can begin with the cloudy eyes looked at – what? What did they manage to see in the short minutes of ephemeral existence? The vast city sprawling on the banks of the majesty-flowing river spread across the banks of the city. No, not that. The magnificent royal palace illuminated by multi-colored searchlights? No. The glance slides farther, to where it is quiet, where the sea of lights gradually dies away. There, where darkness is interspersed with islands of soft, homely light. Yellow, warm. The majestic walls of the palace dissolve into the twilight of the coming evening. One small town, another. But a gust of cool April wind comes and the little cloud disappears under its pressure. The wind flies, flies … Further, below … Here came the pointed roofs, narrow ancient streets, pavements and pavements of the old uneven stone. Windows, wooden shutters, massive carved doors with cast bronze handles, polished for hundreds of years and thousands of hands touching them. A small church at the intersection of two streets. Round square, the path to the closed high lancet entrance. In the rays of the setting sun, stained-glass windows, dark gray lead covers gleam. The faces of the saints majestically gazing at the worldly vanity, wide-open, stern eyes, prostrate, stretched out in blessing. So it was and so it will be. Stone lips whisper quietly – we remember. We remember how … Long, long ago … A modest wedding in the silence of an almost empty, booming room. The bride and groom, a few friends. The low voice of the priest, the eternal question. And the eternal answer. She pronounced it in French – '' oui ''. The groom's hand, no, already her husband, slightly squeezed her hot fingers, encouraging and confirming – “oui…”. From now and forever. Till death do them part.

She smiled with pale lips, ran her tongue over them. Dry. How thirsty she is … Last days thirst, constant thirst burns her from the inside. Son said that she cannot drink much. He is a doctor and his words should be listened to. She tried. But … Today she felt that it already possible. Possible to drink plenty. A hand reached for the button, stopped for a moment – and lay back on a light blanket. Not. She doesn't want to call anyone, doesn't want to see anyone. Not now. She herself. Herself. Son ordered the decanter with water to be removed from the bedside table and allowed to drink according to a personal schedule. Doctor. A bitter smile twisted her lips – it would be better if he was just a son now. He is shackled by the chains of his profession, of filial duty, not realizing that this simply suffocates her, does not allow her … Does not allow her to finally free herself. Today … Well, she was always diligent and punctual. Perhaps that's enough. She lifted herself with an effort in the dim light of the room, squinting at the closed door. She turned her eyes to the medical equipment console lonely standing in the corner – a device for drip infusion, a heart monitor with a telemetry attachment, an apparatus for measuring pressure, an oxymeter. Is that really important how much oxygen is in her blood now? Something else gleaming with metal, plastic, glass. Buttons, screens, tubes, wires. All this is dead, disabled. Three days ago she demanded it. Son refused at first. He argued, insisted, convinced. Chided. Not. Oh, how well he knows her ''no''… Everyone knows. For fifty years she learned to pronounce it well. And those to whom it addressed, even better remembers – it's useless to argue. It will be as she wants. And what she does not want – will not to be. So the multicolored rainbow of lights in the room went out, the hum of the oxygen apparatus fell silent. All this she no longer needs. And there was a silence in which she heard the world outside the window, which she ordered to open wide. The world came to her – a gust of wind, singing birds in dense crowns, the smell of lilac and jasmine. The world called her and she whispered – soon…