He is real

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.

Albert Einstein

Siberian summer morning on the bank of the river in those lands where I grew up and had a carefree time, was especially sunny that day. Sitting on the grass, wet with dew, pressing my knees to my chest and staring into the distance, I was saying goodbye in my mind’s eye. Painfully familiar, frozen in the beauty of nature, the view seemed to be new and exciting. I was watching the slow stream course, along the steep banks framed with endless coniferous forest, rocking in the wind. It went beyond the horizon, and the tops of centuries-old trees mingled, forming the green boundary line, separating the earth from the sky.

I took a deep breath of the cool, refreshingly clean air, which was saturated with pine needles and slight savor of the swamp dampness that came from the reeds growing under the cliffs. At night they turned into an improvised scene for frogs and grasshoppers, and these small representatives of the fauna sang in sync so loudly and annoyingly that I wanted to get my father’s gun from the utility room and shoot them all. I wish had known how to shoot a gun.

– Well, Anna, are you ready to go? – My mom asked timidly, standing a little bit away from me and waiting. She distracted me from contemplating the beauty of nature, disrupting the order of the farewell.

My mother is kind to everyone, too kind. She has lived most of her life, caring more often of her errant husband and children than about herself. She had two children, me and my elder brother. By the time of my departure he had already managed to start a family for the second time.

By the way, about my brother. When I looked at him, the thought involuntarily sneaked into my head that everything should be the other way around: I wish we could change places – and here it is, the ideal of a brother and sister. Brother weak and sentimenta – qualities more appropriate for women, – unlike me, who was driven by madness, “relative devil-may-care attitude” (it shouldn’t be confused with indifference), the eternal desire to make my case in the fight against injustice and gain my point, which is usually characteristic of men with a strong will power. Though, these traits of my character manifested themselves only when I entered the adolescence, when the familiar world turned upside down. Having grown up, I could afford to make fun of my brother, forgetting that he was older and – as it should be – smarter. He did not take offense and was not impertinent to me, he did not know how to be impudent.

Mom took my hand, and we headed to the sixth model of “Zhiguli” in white, parked near the crooked lath fence.

My father was waiting for us in the car, thoroughly checking the contents of the glove compartment, trying to see if he had forgotten anything. Without a doubt, he could be called “the one who is fancy to forget the most needed things.” What clouds he had his head in, was known only to himself, and it was from him that I unconsciously adopted this quality.