When I get back, be home and read online. Book club: “When I return, be at home” by Elchin Safarli

Elchin Safarli

When I return, be home

Elchin Safarli is a volunteer at the Strong Lara Foundation for Helping Homeless Animals. In the photo he is with Reina. This once stray dog, paralyzed by an unknown gunman, now lives at the foundation. We believe that very soon the day will come when our pet will find a home.

***

Now I feel more clearly the eternity of life. No one will die, and those who loved each other in one life will certainly meet again after. Body, name, nationality - everything will be different, but we will be attracted by a magnet: love binds us forever. In the meantime, I live my life - I love and sometimes I get tired of love. I remember moments, I carefully preserve this memory in myself, so that tomorrow or in the next life I can write about everything.

To my family

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it sounds like baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.

Jack London

We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.

And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink fresh water separately. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.

And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood without knowing it.

This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.

Victor Konetsky

Don't invent hell for yourself

It's winter here all year round. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity. Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.

In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies - one of those who are devoted to their homeland - through the cracks of the closed shutters watch the fugitives, grinning - either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”

Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.

“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”

On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”

When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.

I don’t like the dark time of day and the dark water of the ocean - they oppress me with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.

I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.

In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books here are the only entertainment; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. There is a dance club, but few people go there.

I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.

Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.

I miss. Dad

We have been given so much and we don't appreciate it.

I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life is constant work on yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road, everyone meets those who, with a kind word, silent support, and a set table, help to pass part of the journey easily, without loss.

Mars is in a good mood in the morning. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed him warm clothes so his belly wouldn’t get cold.

I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”

Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel, we took him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.

He has a sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.

Mars cannot be left alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as many people around him as possible. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.

Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in water ice deposits. Do you get the connection?

When we returned from our walk, the snow became heavier and the wires were covered with white growths. Some passersby rejoiced at the snowfall, others scolded.

I can see how important it is not to stop each other from creating magic, no matter how small. Everyone has their own - on a piece of paper, in the kitchen preparing red lentil soup, in a provincial hospital or on the stage of a silent hall.

There are also many who create magic to themselves, without words, for fear of letting it out.

You cannot question your neighbor’s talents; You shouldn’t draw the curtains, preventing someone from watching how nature works its magic, carefully covering the roofs with snow.

People are given so much for free, but we don’t appreciate it, we think about payment, we demand checks, we save for a rainy day, missing the beauty of the present.

I miss. Dad

Don't forget where your ship is sailing

our white house stands thirty-four steps from the ocean. It has been empty for many years, the paths to it are covered with a thick layer of ice; the chimney was clogged with sand, seagull feathers, and mouse droppings; the stove and walls yearned for warmth; Through the frosty window panes the ocean was not visible at all.

Local residents are afraid of the house, calling it “meches,” which translates as “infecting with pain.” “Those who settled in it fell into the prison of their own fears and went crazy.” Stupid arguments didn’t stop us from moving into the house we fell in love with as soon as we set foot on the threshold. Perhaps for some it became a prison, for us it became liberation.

Having moved in, the first thing we did was light the stove, make tea, and the next morning we repainted the walls that had warmed up during the night. Mom chose the color “starry night,” something between lavender and violet. We liked it, we didn’t even bother hanging pictures on the walls.

But the shelves in the living room are filled with children's books that we read with you, Dostu.

Do you remember your mother told you: “If everything goes wrong, pick up a good book, it will help.”

From a distance, our house merges with the snow. In the morning, from the top of the hill, only the endless white, greenish water of the ocean and the brown marks of the rusty sides of Ozgur are visible. This is our friend, meet me, I put his photo in the envelope.

To an outsider, it is an aged fishing boat. For us, he is the one who reminded us how important it is to accept change with dignity. Once Ozgur shone on the mighty waves, scattering nets, now, tired and humble, he lives on land. He is glad that he is alive and can, at least from a distance, see the ocean.

In Ozgur's cabin I found an old logbook, covered with interesting thoughts in the local dialect. It is unknown who owns the recordings, but I decided that Ozgur was talking to us like this.

Yesterday I asked Ozgur if he believes in predestination. On the third page of the magazine I received the answer: “We are not given the will to manage time, but only we decide what and how to fill it.”

Last year, municipal staff wanted to send Ozgur to scrap metal. If not for Maria, the longboat would have died. She dragged him to our site.

Dostu, the past and future are not as important as the present. This world is like the ritual dance of the Sufi sema: one hand is turned with the palm towards the sky, receiving the blessing, the other - towards the earth, sharing what was received.

Remain silent when everyone is talking, speak when your words are about love, even through tears. Learn to forgive those around you - this is how you will find the way to forgiving yourself. Don't fuss, but don't forget where your ship is sailing. Maybe he lost his way?..

I miss. Dad

Life is just a journey. Enjoy

When we approached this city with our suitcases, a blizzard covered the only road to it. Fierce, blinding, thick white. Nothing is visible. The pine trees standing on the side of the road in gusts of wind whipped the car, which was already rocking dangerously.

The day before the move, we looked at the weather report: no hints of a storm. It started as unexpectedly as it stopped. But in those moments it seemed that there would be no end to it.

Maria suggested returning. “This is a sign that now is not the time to go. Turn around!” Usually decisive and calm, my mother suddenly panicked.

I almost gave up, but I remembered what would be behind the obstacle: a beloved white house, an ocean with immense waves, the aroma of warm bread on a linden board, Van Gogh’s “Tulip Field” framed on the fireplace, the face of Mars waiting for us in the shelter, and there are still many beautiful things,” and pressed the gas pedal. Forward.

If we had gone back to the past then, we would have missed a lot. There wouldn't be these letters. It is fear (and not evil, as is often believed) that prevents love from opening up. Just as a magical gift can become a curse, fear brings destruction if it is not learned to control.

Dost, how interesting it is to learn life lessons when you are far from young. The great ignorance of man lies in his confidence that he has felt and experienced everything. This (and not wrinkles and gray hair) is the real old age and death.

We have a friend, psychologist Jean, we met at a shelter. We took Mars, and he took a tailless red cat. Recently Jean asked people whether they were satisfied with their lives. Most responded positively. Then Jean asked the following question: “Do you want to live as you are for another two hundred years?” The respondents' faces were contorted.

People get tired of themselves, even joyful ones. Do you know why? They always expect something in return - from circumstances, faith, actions, loved ones. “It's just a path. Enjoy,” Jean smiles and invites us to his place for onion soup. We agreed on next Sunday. Are you with us?

I miss. Dad

We all really need each other

The onion soup was a great success. It was interesting to watch the preparation, especially the moment when Jean put the garlic-rubbed croutons into pots of soup, sprinkled them with Gruyere and into the oven. A couple of minutes later we enjoyed the soupe à l "oignon. We washed it down with white wine.

We've been wanting to try onion soup for a long time, but somehow never got around to it. It was hard to believe that it was tasty: the memories of school broth with coarsely chopped boiled onions did not induce appetite.

“In my opinion, the French themselves have forgotten how to properly prepare the classic soupe à l"oignon, and are constantly coming up with new recipes, one tastier than the other. In fact, the main thing in it is the caramelization of onions, which will happen if you take sweet varieties. Add sugar - extreme! And, of course, it is important who you share the meal with. The French do not eat onion soup alone. “It’s too warm and cozy for that,” my Isabelle said.”

That was the name of Jean's grandmother. He was a boy when his parents died in a car accident, and he was raised by Isabelle. She was a wise woman. On her birthday, Jean cooks onion soup, gathers friends, and remembers her childhood with a smile.

Jean is from Barbizon, a city in northern France where artists came from all over the world to paint landscapes, including Monet.

“Isabelle taught me to love people and help those who are different. Maybe because such people in our village at that time stood out among a thousand inhabitants, and it was too hard for them. Isabelle explained to me that “normal” is a fiction, beneficial to those in power, as they supposedly demonstrate our insignificance and inadequacy to the fictitious ideal. People who consider themselves flawed are easier to manage... Isabelle accompanied me to school with the words: “I hope today you will meet your unique self.”

...It was a magical evening, Dostu. The space around us was filled with wonderful stories, mouth-watering aromas, and new shades of taste. We sat at a set table, the radio sang “Life is beautiful” in the voice of Tony Bennett; the overfed Mars and the quiet, red-haired Mathis were snoring at their feet. We were filled with a bright peace - life goes on.

Jean remembered Isabelle, Maria and I remembered our grandparents. Mentally we thanked them and asked for forgiveness. Because, as they grew older, they needed their care less and less. But they still loved and waited.

Dost, in this strange world we all really need each other.

I miss. Dad

Our only task is to love life

You probably have déjà vu. Jean explains these outbreaks by reincarnation: the immortal soul in a new incarnation remembers what it felt in the previous body. “So the Universe suggests that there is no need to be afraid of earthly death, life is eternal.” It's hard to believe.

Over the past twenty years, déjà vu has not happened to me. But yesterday I felt how exactly a moment of my youth was repeated. In the evening, a storm broke out, and Amir and I finished things earlier than usual: he put out the dough for the morning bread, I stewed the apples with cinnamon for the puff pastries. A new product from our bakery that is loved by our customers. Puff pastry cooks quickly, so we usually make only the filling in the evening.

By seven the bakery was locked.

Deep in thought, I walked home along the raging ocean. Suddenly a prickly blizzard hit my face. Defending myself, I closed my eyes and was suddenly transported into memories of fifty years ago.

I'm eighteen. War. Our battalion defends the border on a mountain with a ridge seventy kilometers long. Minus twenty. After the night offensive there were few of us left. Despite being wounded in the right shoulder, I cannot leave my post. The food is over, the water is running out, the order is to wait until morning. Reinforcements are on the way. At any moment the enemy can mow down the remnants of the battalion.

Cold and exhausted, at times almost losing consciousness from pain, I stood at my post. The storm raged without abating, lashing me from all sides.

Dostu, then I first knew despair. Slowly, inevitably, it takes hold of you from within, and you cannot resist it. At such moments you can’t even concentrate on prayer. You're waiting. Salvation or end.

Do you know what held me back then? A story from childhood. Hiding under the table at one of the adult gatherings, I heard it from Grandma Anna. Working as a nurse, she survived the siege of Leningrad.

My grandmother recalled how once, during a long shelling, a cook in a bomb shelter was cooking soup on a burner. From what they were able to collect: some gave a potato, some an onion, some a handful of cereals from pre-war reserves. When it was almost ready, she took off the lid, tasted it, added some salt, returned the lid to its place: “Another five minutes and it’s ready!” Exhausted people lined up for stew.

But they couldn’t eat that soup. It turned out that laundry soap got into it: the cook did not notice how it stuck to the lid when she put it on the table. The food was spoiled. The cook burst into tears. No one stuttered, reproached, or looked reproachfully. In the most difficult circumstances, people did not lose their humanity.

Then, while on duty, I remembered again and again this story, told in Anna’s voice. He survived. Morning came and help arrived. I was taken to the hospital.

Dost, a person is not given the opportunity to fully understand life, no matter how hard he tries. It seems to us that we understand what, how and why it works. But every new day its serpentines and junctions prove the opposite - we are always at our desks. And the only task is to love life.

I miss. Dad

I'll wait for you as long as you need

When I met your mother, she was married. She's twenty-seven, I'm thirty-two. He immediately confessed his feelings to her. “I’ll wait for you as long as necessary.” He continued to come to the library where she worked, borrowed books, but that was all. I waited for Maria for four years, although she did not promise that she would come.

Later I found out: she thought I would cool down and switch to another. But I was adamant. This is not love at first sight, but the minute when you see a person and understand: this is the one. At our first meeting, I decided that this girl with brown hair would be my wife. And so it happened.

I was waiting for her myself, but I didn’t expect anything from her. Not that she will give birth to children for me and fill my house with comfort; nor that will continue to follow the road that brought us together. The deep confidence that we would be together under any circumstances swept aside all doubts.

Meeting with Maria is the absence of hesitation even when it seemed that there was no hope.

I knew that our lives would intersect, I never stopped believing in it, although there were plenty of reasons to doubt it.

Everyone deserves to meet their person, but not everyone gets it. Some do not allow their will to strengthen and lose faith, others, disappointed, notice only the unsuccessful experience of the past, and some do not wait at all, being content with what they have.

Your birth strengthened our connection with Mary. This was another gift from Fate. We were so passionate about each other and work (love is a wonderful combination of friendship and passion) that the thought of a child did not occur to us. And suddenly life sent us a miracle. You. Our souls and bodies united, merged into one, and the path became common. We tried our best to love and protect you, but there were some mistakes.

I remember how Maria, rocking you to sleep, worried: “Everything in her is changing so quickly that I dream of stopping time like never before.” Nothing gave us greater happiness than seeing you, a sleepy little one, open your eyes, look at us and smile at the fact that we are your dad and mom.

Dostu, barriers to happiness are an illusion of the subconscious, fears are empty worries, and dreams are our present. She is reality.

I miss. Dad

Madness is half wisdom, wisdom is half madness

Until recently, Umid, a good-natured rebel boy, worked in our bakery. He delivered baked goods to homes. His clients loved him, especially the older generation. He was helpful, although he rarely smiled. Umid reminded me of twenty years old - a volcano of internal protest that was about to burst out.

Umid was brought up in a Catholic school and dreamed of becoming a priest. When he was growing up, he dropped out of school and left home. “Many believers pretend to be someone they are not.”

The day before yesterday Umid announced that he was resigning. Moving.

“I don’t want to live in this damn city. I'm tired of calling its ugliness uniqueness, and the hypocrisy of society - a property of mentality. You visitors cannot see how rotten everything is here. And eternal winter is not a feature of the geographical location, but a curse. Look at our government, all they do is talk about love for their homeland. If they started talking about patriotism, it means they were stealing. But it’s our own fault: when they elected themselves, we were sitting in front of the TV with popcorn.”

Amir tried to persuade Umid to think carefully, but I remained silent. I remember being a teenager very well - nothing could stop me. Impulsive decisions helped get things moving.

Dostu, did you know that my grandfather Barish was a teacher at the theological seminary? He and I talked about God more than once. I felt a higher power above me, but religious dogmas caused me rejection.

One day, excited by Barysh’s calm reaction to another school injustice, I blurted out: “Grandfather, it’s nonsense that everything is always on time! Our will determines too much. There is no miracle or predestination. Everything is just will.”

The young man patted me on the shoulder. “Your words confirm that everyone has their own way of going through life. About forty years ago I would have agreed with you recklessly, but now I understand that the Almighty is invariably nearby and that everything is precisely in His will. And we are only children - some are persistent, creative, purposeful, some, on the contrary, are pure contemplators. However, we are as we appear from above.”

At the time, my grandfather’s words seemed like fiction to me, but over the years I turned to them more and more often. Not from the desire to find peace in the highest, but from the realization that in this world everything is in balance: half of madness consists of wisdom, wisdom - of madness.

Umid could not be persuaded. He needed to leave to understand: sometimes it is impossible not to love people, even if they seem bad.

I miss. Dad

Forget about time and everything will work out

Today I finally made Lithuanian bread. I tried to bake it for a week, but I couldn’t. Sometimes too sweet, sometimes too sour. This bread initially has high acidity, which is balanced with honey - so I couldn’t find a middle ground. The proofing of the dough was also difficult - the crumb was sticking out from the cracks in the finished loaf.

Amir explained that the dough according to the Lithuanian recipe is sensitive and requires full involvement in the process. You can't be distracted while kneading. “Forget about time, and everything will work out.” I tried it. The bread came out excellent, whole, chocolate-appetizing in appearance. On the second or third day it began to turn out even tastier. You would like it, Dostu.

The reason for our disappointments is often that we are not in the present, we are busy with memories or waiting.

I always hurried you, daughter. Sorry. I wanted you to have as much time as possible. Maybe because I missed a lot in my childhood? After the war, schools and libraries were rebuilt. I had so many desires to learn, to recognize, to comprehend, but there were no opportunities.

I was afraid that the child would repeat my fate.

I tormented you with haste, whereas from an early age you had your own special rhythm. At first I was worried about your slowness, but then I noticed: Dostu manages to do everything.

Do you remember how Lisa Brunovna, a primary school teacher, called you a “wise turtle”? You weren't offended. On the contrary, she smiled and asked us to give you an aquarium turtle for your birthday so that you could call it by your name.

You taught Maria and me to appreciate the moment. We didn’t understand this, we worked like driven horses, trying to do everything at once. We needed to part with you, face the emptiness, move here in order to realize that the abyss of years had left us no time to stop and feel how much was slipping between our fingers: silence, peace, transitions from one state to another.

Maybe this is true, but I am sure: there are no people who do not experience despair at times. However, it recedes, you just have to accept that life is impossible without sorrows, losses and that they are transitory.

When the blues set in, I stay late at work, kneading dough for buns. I come home when Maria is sleeping. I change clothes, take Mars for a walk, wait until morning and return to the bakery to take the baked goods to the nearest orphanages. These trips help dispel the feeling of uselessness of the days lived.

In my youth, I drowned my despair with alcohol, hiding from it in noisy companies behind a curtain of cigarette smoke. It didn't get any easier. Then I chose solitude. It helped.

When you left, despair began to come more often and linger longer. Hard. If only your mother didn't feel it. Although sometimes it seems to me that she herself is holding on with all her might.

What is my despair about? About different things. About parents mercilessly taken away by the war. About hunger and death of innocent children. About books burning along with houses. About humanity not learning from repeated mistakes. About people who drive themselves into loneliness as soon as they stop sharing their warmth with others.

My despair is that I cannot hug you, daughter.

I will definitely remind myself (wouldn’t this be cheating?) that I can hug you in my memories, that the material world is not an obstacle for souls who love each other. I will console Maria with this when I see her crying over your photograph. But now I don’t believe in anything - I carry pain and protest within me. I walk quickly along the shore or bake bread.

I like fiddling with dough, Dost. Feel its living warmth, inhale the aroma of bread, crunch with a ringing crust. Knowing that what I baked will be eaten by children. A girl with the same freckles as you. This thought in desperate days gives strength to return home and live on.

Cover photo: Alena Motovilova

https://www.instagram.com/alen_fancy/

http://darianorkina.com/

© Safarli E., 2017

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017

Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.

The publishing house thanks the literary agency “Amapola Book” for its assistance in acquiring the rights.

***

Elchin Safarli is a volunteer at the Strong Lara Foundation for Helping Homeless Animals. In the photo he is with Reina. This once stray dog, paralyzed by an unknown gunman, now lives at the foundation. We believe that very soon the day will come when our pet will find a home.

***

Now I feel more clearly the eternity of life. No one will die, and those who loved each other in one life will certainly meet again after. Body, name, nationality - everything will be different, but we will be attracted by a magnet: love binds us forever. In the meantime, I live my life - I love and sometimes I get tired of love. I remember moments, I carefully preserve this memory in myself, so that tomorrow or in the next life I can write about everything.

To my family

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it sounds like baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.

Jack London

Part I

We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.

And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink fresh water separately. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.

And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood without knowing it.

This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.

Victor Konetsky

1
Don't invent hell for yourself

It's winter here all year round. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity. Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.

In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies - one of those who are devoted to their homeland - through the cracks of the closed shutters watch the fugitives, grinning - either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”

Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.

“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”

On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”

When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.

I don’t like the dark time of day and the dark water of the ocean - they oppress me with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.

I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.

In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books here are the only entertainment; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. There is a dance club, but few people go there.

I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.

Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.

I miss. Dad

2
We have been given so much and we don't appreciate it.

I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life is constant work on yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road, everyone meets those who, with a kind word, silent support, and a set table, help to pass part of the journey easily, without loss.

Mars is in a good mood in the morning. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed him warm clothes so his belly wouldn’t get cold.

I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”

Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel, we took him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.

He has a sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.

Mars cannot be left alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as many people around him as possible. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.

Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in water ice deposits. Do you get the connection?

When we returned from our walk, the snow became heavier and the wires were covered with white growths. Some passersby rejoiced at the snowfall, others scolded.

I can see how important it is not to stop each other from creating magic, no matter how small. Everyone has their own - on a piece of paper, in the kitchen preparing red lentil soup, in a provincial hospital or on the stage of a silent hall.

There are also many who create magic to themselves, without words, for fear of letting it out.

You cannot question your neighbor’s talents; You shouldn’t draw the curtains, preventing someone from watching how nature works its magic, carefully covering the roofs with snow.

People are given so much for free, but we don’t appreciate it, we think about payment, we demand checks, we save for a rainy day, missing the beauty of the present.

Year of book publication: 2017

Elchin Safarli’s new book “When I Return, Be Home” instantly became a bestseller. This is not surprising, because the author has long occupied a leading place among and each of his books is expected by the author’s many fans. And the new release “When I Return, Be Home” was no exception, and instantly hit our list.

The plot of the book “When I Return, Be Home”

In the book “When I Return, Be Home” by Safarli, you can read the story of a small family, which is set out in letters from a father to his daughter. This story is generally unremarkable. Hans and Maria met when he was thirty-two and she was twenty-seven. She was married and worked in a library. From the first glance at her, Hans decided that this girl with brown hair would become his wife. He didn’t put it off and immediately admitted his feelings. Maria made her wait for four whole years. She kept thinking that Hans would switch to another woman. And only after being convinced of the authenticity of his love did she come to him.

They moved to live in a house just thirty-four steps from the sea. This house was notorious among the locals, but Maria fell in love with it from the first day. This white house was practically invisible from afar, merging with the coastline. But it was here that Maria could listen to the sounds of the wind, which reminded her of her youth. It was in this house that their Happiness was born - daughter Dostu, Hans's letters to whom reveal to us the secrets of this unremarkable family.

As for the reviews of Elchin Safarli’s book “When I Return, Be At Home,” they mostly contain positive emotions. After all, like any other books by Safarli, it is filled with an atmosphere of kindness, love and resistance to adversity. Many quotes and aphorisms fill it with oriental wisdom, and the smell of baking gives it coziness. The book “When I Return, Be Home” is very atmospheric and excites the reader’s imagination. And the disadvantages that are attributed to the book, in the form of an excessive number of quotes, lengthy text and the lack of a plot as such, are inherent in all the writer’s works. Therefore, the book “When I Return, Be Home” by Safarli can be recommended for download to people who have long been familiar with the writer’s work, as well as to those who are looking for a warm and positive book for more than one evening.

The book “When I Come, Be Home” on the Top Books website

Safarli’s book “When I Return, Be Home” is so popular that this allowed it to take a high place among the fall of 2017. And this despite the fact that it was published only in October 2017 and has not yet reached the peak of its popularity. Therefore, we can say with confidence that already in the next novel it can take a much higher position.

When I return, be home

Elchin Safarli

Bestsellers by Elchin Safarli

Elchin Safarli

When I return, be home

Cover photo: Alena Motovilova

https://www.instagram.com/alen_fancy/

http://darianorkina.com/

© Safarli E., 2017

© AST Publishing House LLC, 2017

Any use of the material in this book, in whole or in part, without the permission of the copyright holder is prohibited.

The publishing house thanks the literary agency “Amapola Book” for its assistance in acquiring the rights.

http://amapolabook.com/ (http://amapolabook.com/)

Elchin Safarli is a volunteer at the Strong Lara Foundation for Helping Homeless Animals. In the photo he is with Reina. This once stray dog, paralyzed by an unknown gunman, now lives at the foundation. We believe that very soon the day will come when our pet will find a home.

Now I feel more clearly the eternity of life. No one will die, and those who loved each other in one life will certainly meet again after. Body, name, nationality - everything will be different, but we will be attracted by a magnet: love binds us forever. In the meantime, I live my life - I love and sometimes I get tired of love. I remember moments, I carefully preserve this memory in myself, so that tomorrow or in the next life I can write about everything.

To my family

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it sounds like baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.

Jack London

We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.

And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink fresh water separately. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.

And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood without knowing it.

This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.

Victor Konetsky

Don't invent hell for yourself

It's winter here all year round. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity. Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.

In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies - one of those who are devoted to their homeland - through the cracks of the closed shutters watch the fugitives, grinning - either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”

Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.

“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”

On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”

When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.

I don’t like the dark time of day and the dark water of the ocean - they oppress me with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.

I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.

In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books here are the only entertainment; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. There is a dance club, but few people go there.

I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.

Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.

I miss. Dad

We have been given so much and we don't appreciate it.

I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life is constant work on yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road, everyone meets those who, with a kind word, silent support, and a set table, help to pass part of the journey easily, without loss.

Mars is in a good mood in the morning. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed him warm clothes so his belly wouldn’t get cold.

I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”

Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel, we took him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.

He has a sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.

Mars cannot be left alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as many people around him as possible. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.

Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in deposits

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water ice. Do you get the connection?

When we returned from our walk, the snow became heavier and the wires were covered with white growths. Some passersby rejoiced at the snowfall, others scolded.

I can see how important it is not to stop each other from creating magic, no matter how small. Everyone has their own - on a piece of paper, in the kitchen preparing red lentil soup, in a provincial hospital or on the stage of a silent hall.

There are also many who create magic to themselves, without words, for fear of letting it out.

You cannot question your neighbor’s talents; You shouldn’t draw the curtains, preventing someone from watching how nature works its magic, carefully covering the roofs with snow.

People are given so much for free, but we don’t appreciate it, we think about payment, we demand checks, we save for a rainy day, missing the beauty of the present.

I miss. Dad

Don't forget where your ship is sailing

our white house stands thirty-four steps from the ocean. It has been empty for many years, the paths to it are covered with a thick layer of ice; the chimney was clogged with sand, seagull feathers, and mouse droppings; the stove and walls yearned for warmth; Through the frosty window panes the ocean was not visible at all.

Local residents are afraid of the house, calling it “meches,” which translates as “infecting with pain.” “Those who settled in it fell into the prison of their own fears and went crazy.” Stupid arguments didn’t stop us from moving into the house we fell in love with as soon as we set foot on the threshold. Perhaps for some it became a prison, for us it became liberation.

Having moved in, the first thing we did was light the stove, make tea, and the next morning we repainted the walls that had warmed up during the night. Mom chose the color “starry night,” something between lavender and violet. We liked it, we didn’t even bother hanging pictures on the walls.

But the shelves in the living room are filled with children's books that we read with you, Dostu.

Do you remember your mother told you: “If everything goes wrong, pick up a good book, it will help.”

From a distance, our house merges with the snow. In the morning, from the top of the hill, only the endless white, greenish water of the ocean and the brown marks of the rusty sides of Ozgur are visible. This is our friend, meet me, I put his photo in the envelope.

To an outsider, it is an aged fishing boat. For us, he is the one who reminded us how important it is to accept change with dignity. Once Ozgur shone on the mighty waves, scattering nets, now, tired and humble, he lives on land. He is glad that he is alive and can, at least from a distance, see the ocean.

In Ozgur's cabin I found an old logbook, covered with interesting thoughts in the local dialect. It is unknown who owns the recordings, but I decided that Ozgur was talking to us like this.

Yesterday I asked Ozgur if he believes in predestination. On the third page of the magazine I received the answer: “We are not given the will to manage time, but only we decide what and how to fill it.”

Last year, municipal staff wanted to send Ozgur to scrap metal. If not for Maria, the longboat would have died. She dragged him to our site.

Dostu, the past and future are not as important as the present. This world is like the ritual dance of the Sufi sema: one hand is turned with the palm towards the sky, receiving the blessing, the other - towards the earth, sharing what was received.

Remain silent when everyone is talking, speak when your words are about love, even through tears. Learn to forgive those around you - this is how you will find the way to forgiving yourself. Don't fuss, but don't forget where your ship is sailing. Maybe he lost his way?..

I miss. Dad

Life is just a journey. Enjoy

When we approached this city with our suitcases, a blizzard covered the only road to it. Fierce, blinding, thick white. Nothing is visible. The pine trees standing on the side of the road in gusts of wind whipped the car, which was already rocking dangerously.

The day before the move, we looked at the weather report: no hints of a storm. It started as unexpectedly as it stopped. But in those moments it seemed that there would be no end to it.

Maria suggested returning. “This is a sign that now is not the time to go. Turn around!” Usually decisive and calm, my mother suddenly panicked.

I almost gave up, but I remembered what would be behind the obstacle: a beloved white house, an ocean with immense waves, the aroma of warm bread on a linden board, Van Gogh’s “Tulip Field” framed on the fireplace, the face of Mars waiting for us in the shelter, and there are still many beautiful things,” and pressed the gas pedal. Forward.

If we had gone back to the past then, we would have missed a lot. There wouldn't be these letters. It is fear (and not evil, as is often believed) that prevents love from opening up. Just as a magical gift can become a curse, fear brings destruction if it is not learned to control.

Dost, how interesting it is to learn life lessons when you are far from young. The great ignorance of man lies in his confidence that he has felt and experienced everything. This (and not wrinkles and gray hair) is the real old age and death.

We have a friend, psychologist Jean, we met at a shelter. We took Mars, and he took a tailless red cat. Recently Jean asked people whether they were satisfied with their lives. Most responded positively. Then Jean asked the following question: “Do you want to live as you are for another two hundred years?” The respondents' faces were contorted.

People get tired of themselves, even joyful ones. Do you know why? They always expect something in return - from circumstances, faith, actions, loved ones. “It's just a path. Enjoy,” Jean smiles and invites us to his place for onion soup. We agreed on next Sunday. Are you with us?

I miss. Dad

We all really need each other

The onion soup was a great success. It was interesting to watch the preparation, especially the moment when Jean put the garlic-rubbed croutons into pots of soup, sprinkled them with Gruyere and into the oven. After a couple of minutes we were enjoying the soupe? l "oignon. We washed it down with white wine.

We've been wanting to try onion soup for a long time, but somehow never got around to it. It was hard to believe that it was tasty: the memories of school broth with coarsely chopped boiled onions did not induce appetite.

“In my opinion, the French themselves have forgotten how to properly prepare a classic soup? l "oignon, and they constantly come up with new recipes, one tastier than the other. In fact, the main thing in it is the caramelization of onions, which you get if you take sweet varieties. Adding sugar is extreme! And, of course, it is important with whom you share the meal. The French don’t eat onion soup alone. “It’s too warm and cozy for that,” my Isabelle said.”

That was the name of Jean's grandmother. He was a boy when his parents died in a car accident, and he was raised by Isabelle. She was a wise woman. On her birthday, Jean cooks onion soup, gathers friends, and remembers her childhood with a smile.

Jean is from Barbizon, a city in northern France where artists came from all over the world to paint landscapes, including Monet.

“Isabelle taught me to love people and help those who are different. Maybe because such people in our village at that time stood out among a thousand inhabitants, and it was too hard for them. Isabelle explained to me that “normal” is a fiction, beneficial to those in power, as they supposedly demonstrate our insignificance and inadequacy to the fictitious ideal. People who consider themselves flawed are easier to manage... To Isabelle's school

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she saw me off with the words: “I hope today you will meet your unique self.”

...It was a magical evening, Dostu. The space around us was filled with wonderful stories, mouth-watering aromas, and new shades of taste. We sat at a set table, the radio sang “Life is beautiful” in the voice of Tony Bennett; the overfed Mars and the quiet, red-haired Mathis were snoring at their feet. We were filled with a bright peace - life goes on.

Jean remembered Isabelle, Maria and I remembered our grandparents. Mentally we thanked them and asked for forgiveness. Because, as they grew older, they needed their care less and less. But they still loved and waited.

Dost, in this strange world we all really need each other.

I miss. Dad

Our only task is to love life

You probably have déjà vu. Jean explains these outbreaks by reincarnation: the immortal soul in a new incarnation remembers what it felt in the previous body. “So the Universe suggests that there is no need to be afraid of earthly death, life is eternal.” It's hard to believe.

Over the past twenty years, déjà vu has not happened to me. But yesterday I felt how exactly a moment of my youth was repeated. In the evening, a storm broke out, and Amir and I finished things earlier than usual: he put out the dough for the morning bread, I stewed the apples with cinnamon for the puff pastries. A new product from our bakery that is loved by our customers. Puff pastry cooks quickly, so we usually make only the filling in the evening.

By seven the bakery was locked.

Deep in thought, I walked home along the raging ocean. Suddenly a prickly blizzard hit my face. Defending myself, I closed my eyes and was suddenly transported into memories of fifty years ago.

I'm eighteen. War. Our battalion defends the border on a mountain with a ridge seventy kilometers long. Minus twenty. After the night offensive there were few of us left. Despite being wounded in the right shoulder, I cannot leave my post. The food is over, the water is running out, the order is to wait until morning. Reinforcements are on the way. At any moment the enemy can mow down the remnants of the battalion.

Cold and exhausted, at times almost losing consciousness from pain, I stood at my post. The storm raged without abating, lashing me from all sides.

Dostu, then I first knew despair. Slowly, inevitably, it takes hold of you from within, and you cannot resist it. At such moments you can’t even concentrate on prayer. You're waiting. Salvation or end.

Do you know what held me back then? A story from childhood. Hiding under the table at one of the adult gatherings, I heard it from Grandma Anna. Working as a nurse, she survived the siege of Leningrad.

My grandmother recalled how once, during a long shelling, a cook in a bomb shelter was cooking soup on a burner. From what they were able to collect: some gave a potato, some an onion, some a handful of cereals from pre-war reserves. When it was almost ready, she took off the lid, tasted it, added some salt, returned the lid to its place: “Another five minutes and it’s ready!” Exhausted people lined up for stew.

But they couldn’t eat that soup. It turned out that laundry soap got into it: the cook did not notice how it stuck to the lid when she put it on the table. The food was spoiled. The cook burst into tears. No one stuttered, reproached, or looked reproachfully. In the most difficult circumstances, people did not lose their humanity.

Then, while on duty, I remembered again and again this story, told in Anna’s voice. He survived. Morning came and help arrived. I was taken to the hospital.

Dost, a person is not given the opportunity to fully understand life, no matter how hard he tries. It seems to us that we understand what, how and why it works. But every new day its serpentines and junctions prove the opposite - we are always at our desks. And the only task is to love life.

I miss. Dad

I'll wait for you as long as you need

When I met your mother, she was married. She's twenty-seven, I'm thirty-two. He immediately confessed his feelings to her. “I’ll wait for you as long as necessary.” He continued to come to the library where she worked, borrowed books, but that was all. I waited for Maria for four years, although she did not promise that she would come.

Later I found out: she thought I would cool down and switch to another. But I was adamant. This is not love at first sight, but the minute when you see a person and understand: this is the one. At our first meeting, I decided that this girl with brown hair would be my wife. And so it happened.

I was waiting for her myself, but I didn’t expect anything from her. Not that she will give birth to children for me and fill my house with comfort; nor that will continue to follow the road that brought us together. The deep confidence that we would be together under any circumstances swept aside all doubts.

Meeting with Maria is the absence of hesitation even when it seemed that there was no hope.

I knew that our lives would intersect, I never stopped believing in it, although there were plenty of reasons to doubt it.

Everyone deserves to meet their person, but not everyone gets it. Some do not allow their will to strengthen and lose faith, others, disappointed, notice only the unsuccessful experience of the past, and some do not wait at all, being content with what they have.

Your birth strengthened our connection with Mary. This was another gift from Fate. We were so passionate about each other and work (love is a wonderful combination of friendship and passion) that the thought of a child did not occur to us. And suddenly life sent us a miracle. You. Our souls and bodies united, merged into one, and the path became common. We tried our best to love and protect you, but there were some mistakes.

I remember how Maria, rocking you to sleep, worried: “Everything in her is changing so quickly that I dream of stopping time like never before.” Nothing gave us greater happiness than seeing you, a sleepy little one, open your eyes, look at us and smile at the fact that we are your dad and mom.

Dostu, barriers to happiness are an illusion of the subconscious, fears are empty worries, and dreams are our present. She is reality.

I miss. Dad

Madness is half wisdom, wisdom is half madness

Until recently, Umid, a good-natured rebel boy, worked in our bakery. He delivered baked goods to homes. His clients loved him, especially the older generation. He was helpful, although he rarely smiled. Umid reminded me of twenty years old - a volcano of internal protest that was about to burst out.

Umid was brought up in a Catholic school and dreamed of becoming a priest. When he was growing up, he dropped out of school and left home. “Many believers pretend to be someone they are not.”

The day before yesterday Umid announced that he was resigning. Moving.

“I don’t want to live in this damn city. I'm tired of calling its ugliness uniqueness, and the hypocrisy of society - a property of mentality. You visitors cannot see how rotten everything is here. And eternal winter is not a feature of the geographical location, but a curse. Look at our government, all they do is talk about love for their homeland. If they started talking about patriotism, it means they were stealing. But it’s our own fault: when they elected themselves, we were sitting in front of the TV with popcorn.”

Amir tried to persuade Umid to think carefully, but I remained silent. I remember being a teenager very well - nothing could stop me. Impulsive decisions helped get things moving.

Dostu, did you know that my grandfather Barish

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was a teacher at a theological seminary? He and I talked about God more than once. I felt a higher power above me, but religious dogmas caused me rejection.

One day, excited by Barysh’s calm reaction to another school injustice, I blurted out: “Grandfather, it’s nonsense that everything is always on time! Our will determines too much. There is no miracle or predestination. Everything is just will.”

The young man patted me on the shoulder. “Your words confirm that everyone has their own way of going through life. About forty years ago I would have agreed with you recklessly, but now I understand that the Almighty is invariably nearby and that everything is precisely in His will. And we are only children - some are persistent, creative, purposeful, some, on the contrary, are pure contemplators. However, we are as we appear from above.”

At the time, my grandfather’s words seemed like fiction to me, but over the years I turned to them more and more often. Not from the desire to find peace in the highest, but from the realization that in this world everything is in balance: half of madness consists of wisdom, wisdom - of madness.

Umid could not be persuaded. He needed to leave to understand: sometimes it is impossible not to love people, even if they seem bad.

I miss. Dad

Forget about time and everything will work out

Today I finally made Lithuanian bread. I tried to bake it for a week, but I couldn’t. Sometimes too sweet, sometimes too sour. This bread initially has high acidity, which is balanced with honey - so I couldn’t find a middle ground. The proofing of the dough was also difficult - the crumb was sticking out from the cracks in the finished loaf.

Amir explained that the dough according to the Lithuanian recipe is sensitive and requires full involvement in the process. You can't be distracted while kneading. “Forget about time, and everything will work out.” I tried it. The bread came out excellent, whole, chocolate-appetizing in appearance. On the second or third day it began to turn out even tastier. You would like it, Dostu.

The reason for our disappointments is often that we are not in the present, we are busy with memories or waiting.

I always hurried you, daughter. Sorry. I wanted you to have as much time as possible. Maybe because I missed a lot in my childhood? After the war, schools and libraries were rebuilt. I had so many desires to learn, to recognize, to comprehend, but there were no opportunities.

I was afraid that the child would repeat my fate.

I tormented you with haste, whereas from an early age you had your own special rhythm. At first I was worried about your slowness, but then I noticed: Dostu manages to do everything.

Do you remember how Lisa Brunovna, a primary school teacher, called you a “wise turtle”? You weren't offended. On the contrary, she smiled and asked us to give you an aquarium turtle for your birthday so that you could call it by your name.

You taught Maria and me to appreciate the moment. We didn’t understand this, we worked like driven horses, trying to do everything at once. We needed to part with you, face the emptiness, move here in order to realize that the abyss of years had left us no time to stop and feel how much was slipping between our fingers: silence, peace, transitions from one state to another.

Here, in the City of Eternal Winter, there is a popular wisdom: “No one can be brought to where he himself has not yet reached.”

I recently read that people usually identify themselves exclusively with action: they strive to forget about death, or more precisely, their fear of it. The pursuit of new achievements and impressions helps to get away from sad thoughts.

There is no use in running away! The fear will grow, pressing until you look into his eyes. And when you look, you will understand that there is nothing scary.

I miss. Dad

I want to hug you so bad

Among the letters written to you there are those that I don’t dare send. They are on the same paper, in the same envelopes as the others, but about something else. About despair. I’m not ashamed of him, but I don’t want you to read how sometimes your father... doesn’t believe.

Despair is called the last and main tool of the devil; he uses it against the most persistent, when previous methods - pride, jealousy, hatred - are powerless.

Maybe this is true, but I am sure: there are no people who do not experience despair at times. However, it recedes, you just have to accept that life is impossible without sorrows, losses and that they are transitory.

When the blues set in, I stay late at work, kneading dough for buns. I come home when Maria is sleeping. I change clothes, take Mars for a walk, wait until morning and return to the bakery to take the baked goods to the nearest orphanages. These trips help dispel the feeling of uselessness of the days lived.

In my youth, I drowned my despair with alcohol, hiding from it in noisy companies behind a curtain of cigarette smoke. It didn't get any easier. Then I chose solitude. It helped.

When you left, despair began to come more often and linger longer. Hard. If only your mother didn't feel it. Although sometimes it seems to me that she herself is holding on with all her might.

What is my despair about? About different things. About parents mercilessly taken away by the war. About hunger and death of innocent children. About books burning along with houses. About humanity not learning from repeated mistakes. About people who drive themselves into loneliness as soon as they stop sharing their warmth with others.

My despair is that I cannot hug you, daughter.

I will definitely remind myself (wouldn’t this be cheating?) that I can hug you in my memories, that the material world is not an obstacle for souls who love each other. I will console Maria with this when I see her crying over your photograph. But now I don’t believe in anything - I carry pain and protest within me. I walk quickly along the shore or bake bread.

I like fiddling with dough, Dost. Feel its living warmth, inhale the aroma of bread, crunch with a ringing crust. Knowing that what I baked will be eaten by children. A girl with the same freckles as you. This thought in desperate days gives strength to return home and live on.

I miss. Dad

Living things cannot remain unchanged

At noon we visited the mosque with Amir. Today is his parents' birthday. They died on the same day, three years apart. They were buried in Amir’s homeland, in a village with rough quince plantations.

My friend misses his parents and everything he left behind in his native land. There is a seventh year of war there between government troops and armed opposition units. The latter legalized slavery in the territories under their control - and this is now, in the twenty-first century!

“I can’t return because of the war, and my wife and children are against it. All cemeteries in the village were bombed, people have no place to visit the dead. I go to the mosque, although I am not religious. Here I hear the voices of my father and mother more clearly than anywhere else.”

As a person ages, he thinks about what will happen after death. According to Islam, every Muslim has a new life in heaven or hell. Depends on how you lived - righteously or sinfully. I ask Amir if he believes in an afterlife. “Not really. Both heaven and hell are on earth, like all rewards and punishments. I think everyone there will get what they believed in here.”

While Amir was in the mosque, I took a walk around. Children waiting for their parents played snowballs, and in response to their hubbub, sparrows flew from high-voltage wires and circled over the little ones. Our city is beautiful.

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Covered in snow all year round, it itself is like snow - cold, white, beautiful.

There are stone tombstones in the backyard. Previously, spiritual leaders were buried here; it was considered honorable to be buried near the mosque. I looked at the graves and thought that living here and now is still the truest form of being. We are guests in this world and we have little time.

...Amir is a man of amazing calm, both external and internal. He is twenty-six years younger than me, but his reaction to what is happening is simple, humble, without rebellion, loud questions - I don’t always succeed in this. He is contemplative but caring.

Amir's daily routine consists of the same actions: he wakes up at half past five in the morning, brews coffee with cardamom, prepares breakfast for his family, goes to the bakery, plays the guitar at lunchtime, returns home in the evening, has a hearty dinner (the first course is orange soup). lentils), reads to the children and goes to bed. The next day everything repeats itself.

I find such a predictable routine boring. Amir is happy. No explanations, comparisons. He walked towards this for a long time - to live in harmony with himself, to enjoy the love of what he built.

“I lived for many years at the mercy of my parents’ desires. They were against “tinkering with the dough.” And I absolutely loved baking, spending hours on end watching my mother prepare cakes with anise or cornmeal pie. My father beat me for such interest, dragged me to the slaughterhouse, wanted me to continue his work.”

Amir was married to his second cousin. They lived for nine months, the girl died of malaria. “I couldn’t say no to my father and mother.” I felt obligated."

After the death of his parents, Amir married again: to the girl he loves with all his heart.

Because of the war I had to leave the village. The city of eternal winter accepted Amir, here he opened a bakery and is raising twin daughters.

Dostu, changes, even the most drastic ones, are the best seasoning for life. It’s impossible without them. Living things cannot remain unchanged.

I miss. Dad

The attraction between us lives its own life

There are also warm days here. As per schedule, on the twentieth of March the first bright sun appears, in honor of which a holiday is held. His main treat is matahari. Golden-colored raisin buns with a creamy taste. At first I decided that the baked goods were named after the dancer. It turns out she had nothing to do with it. Matahari means "sun" in Malay.

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To my family

Sometimes it seems to me that the whole world, the whole life, everything in the world has settled in me and demands: be our voice. I feel - oh, I don’t know how to explain... I feel how huge it is, but when I start talking, it sounds like baby talk. What a difficult task: to convey a feeling, a sensation in such words, on paper or out loud, so that the one who reads or listens feels or feels the same as you.

Jack London

We all once crawled out into the light of day from a salty font, for life began at sea.

And now we can't live without her. Only now we eat salt separately and drink fresh water separately. Our lymph has the same salt composition as sea water. The sea lives in each of us, although we separated from it a long time ago.

And the most land-dwelling man carries the sea in his blood without knowing it.

This is probably why people are so drawn to look at the surf, at the endless series of waves and listen to their eternal roar.

Victor Konetsky

Don't invent hell for yourself

It's winter here all year round. The sharp northern wind - it often grumbles in a low voice, but sometimes it turns into a scream - does not release the whitish land and its inhabitants from captivity. Many of them have not left these lands since birth, proud of their devotion. There are also those who run away from here to the other side of the ocean from year to year. Mostly brown-haired women with bright nails.

In the last five days of November, when the ocean humbly retreats, bowing its head, they - with a suitcase in one hand, with children in the other - rush to the pier, wrapped in brown cloaks. The ladies - one of those who are devoted to their homeland - through the cracks of the closed shutters watch the fugitives, grinning - either out of envy, or out of wisdom. “We invented hell for ourselves. They devalued their land, believing that it was better where they had not yet reached.”

Your mom and I have a good time here. In the evenings she reads books about winds aloud. In a solemn voice, with a proud air of being involved in magic. At such moments, Maria resembles weather forecasters.

“...The speed reaches twenty to forty meters per second. It blows constantly, covering a wide strip of coastline. As the updrafts move, the wind is observed over an increasingly large part of the lower troposphere, rising up several kilometers.”

On the table in front of her is a stack of library books and a pot of linden tea brewed with dried orange peel. “Why do you love this restless wind?” - I ask. Returns the cup to the saucer and turns the page. “He reminds me of a young me.”

When it gets dark, I hardly go outside. Holing up in our house, which smells of rooibos, softened clay and cookies with raspberry jam, your favorite. We always have it, mom puts your portion in the cupboard: suddenly, like in childhood, you run from a hot day into the kitchen for basil lemonade and cookies.

I don’t like the dark time of day and the dark water of the ocean - they oppress me with longing for you, Dost. At home, next to Maria, I feel better, I become closer to you.

I won’t upset you, I’ll tell you about something else.

In the mornings, until lunch, my mother works in the library. Books here are the only entertainment; everything else is almost inaccessible due to the wind, dampness and the character of the local residents. There is a dance club, but few people go there.

I work in a bakery near my house, kneading dough. Manually. Amir, my companion, and I bake bread - white, rye, with olives, dried vegetables and figs. Delicious, you would like it. We do not use yeast, only natural sourdough.

Yes, baking bread is a feat of hard work and patience. It's not as simple as it seems from the outside. I can’t imagine myself without this business, it’s as if I wasn’t a man of numbers.

I miss. Dad

We have been given so much and we don't appreciate it.

I want to introduce you to those who here, sometimes without knowing it, make us better. Does it really matter that we are nearly seventy! Life is constant work on yourself, which you cannot entrust to anyone, and sometimes you get tired of it. But do you know what the secret is? On the road, everyone meets those who, with a kind word, silent support, and a set table, help to pass part of the journey easily, without loss.

Mars is in a good mood in the morning. Today is Sunday, Maria and I are at home, we all went for a morning walk together. We dressed warmly, grabbed a thermos of tea, and headed to an abandoned pier, where seagulls rest in calm weather. Mars does not scare away the birds, lies down nearby and looks at them dreamily. They sewed him warm clothes so his belly wouldn’t get cold.

I asked Maria why Mars, just like humans, loves to watch birds. “They are absolutely free, at least it seems so to us. And birds can be there for a long time, where it doesn’t matter what happened to you on earth.”

Sorry, Dostu, I started talking, I almost forgot to introduce you to Mars. Our dog is a cross between a dachshund and a mongrel, we took him from the shelter distrustful and intimidated. Warmed it up, loved it.

He has a sad story. Mars spent several years in a dark closet, his non-human owner performed cruel experiments on him. The psychopath died, and neighbors found the barely alive dog and handed it over to volunteers.

Mars cannot be left alone, especially in the dark, and whines. There should be as many people around him as possible. I take it with me to work. There, and not only, they love Mars, even though he is a gloomy fellow.

Why did we call it Mars? Because of the fiery brown fur and a character as harsh as the nature of this planet. In addition, he feels good in the cold and enjoys wallowing in the snowdrifts. And the planet Mars is rich in water ice deposits. Do you get the connection?

When we returned from our walk, the snow became heavier and the wires were covered with white growths. Some passersby rejoiced at the snowfall, others scolded.

I can see how important it is not to stop each other from creating magic, no matter how small. Everyone has their own - on a piece of paper, in the kitchen preparing red lentil soup, in a provincial hospital or on the stage of a silent hall.

There are also many who create magic to themselves, without words, for fear of letting it out.

You cannot question your neighbor’s talents; You shouldn’t draw the curtains, preventing someone from watching how nature works its magic, carefully covering the roofs with snow.

People are given so much for free, but we don’t appreciate it, we think about payment, we demand checks, we save for a rainy day, missing the beauty of the present.

I miss. Dad

Don't forget where your ship is sailing

our white house stands thirty-four steps from the ocean. It has been empty for many years, the paths to it are covered with a thick layer of ice; the chimney was clogged with sand, seagull feathers, and mouse droppings; the stove and walls yearned for warmth; Through the frosty window panes the ocean was not visible at all.

Local residents are afraid of the house, calling it “meches,” which translates as “infecting with pain.” “Those who settled in it fell into the prison of their own fears and went crazy.” Stupid arguments didn’t stop us from moving into the house we fell in love with as soon as we set foot on the threshold. Perhaps for some it became a prison, for us it became liberation.

Having moved in, the first thing we did was light the stove, make tea, and the next morning we repainted the walls that had warmed up during the night. Mom chose the color “starry night,” something between lavender and violet. We liked it, we didn’t even bother hanging pictures on the walls.

But the shelves in the living room are filled with children's books that we read with you, Dostu.

Do you remember your mother told you: “If everything goes wrong, pick up a good book, it will help.”

From a distance, our house merges with the snow. In the morning, from the top of the hill, only the endless white, greenish water of the ocean and the brown marks of the rusty sides of Ozgur are visible. This is our friend, meet me, I put his photo in the envelope.

To an outsider, it is an aged fishing boat. For us, he is the one who reminded us how important it is to accept change with dignity. Once Ozgur shone on the mighty waves, scattering nets, now, tired and humble, he lives on land. He is glad that he is alive and can, at least from a distance, see the ocean.

In Ozgur's cabin I found an old logbook, covered with interesting thoughts in the local dialect. It is unknown who owns the recordings, but I decided that Ozgur was talking to us like this.

Yesterday I asked Ozgur if he believes in predestination. On the third page of the magazine I received the answer: “We are not given the will to manage time, but only we decide what and how to fill it.”

Last year, municipal staff wanted to send Ozgur to scrap metal. If not for Maria, the longboat would have died. She dragged him to our site.

Dostu, the past and future are not as important as the present. This world is like the ritual dance of the Sufi sema: one hand is turned with the palm towards the sky, receiving the blessing, the other - towards the earth, sharing what was received.

Remain silent when everyone is talking, speak when your words are about love, even through tears. Learn to forgive those around you - this is how you will find the way to forgiving yourself. Don't fuss, but don't forget where your ship is sailing. Maybe he lost his way?..

I miss. Dad

Life is just a journey. Enjoy

When we approached this city with our suitcases, a blizzard covered the only road to it. Fierce, blinding, thick white. Nothing is visible. The pine trees standing on the side of the road in gusts of wind whipped the car, which was already rocking dangerously.

The day before the move, we looked at the weather report: no hints of a storm. It started as unexpectedly as it stopped. But in those moments it seemed that there would be no end to it.

Maria suggested returning. “This is a sign that now is not the time to go. Turn around!” Usually decisive and calm, my mother suddenly panicked.

I almost gave up, but I remembered what would be behind the obstacle: a beloved white house, an ocean with immense waves, the aroma of warm bread on a linden board, Van Gogh’s “Tulip Field” framed on the fireplace, the face of Mars waiting for us in the shelter, and there are still many beautiful things,” and pressed the gas pedal. Forward.

If we had gone back to the past then, we would have missed a lot. There wouldn't be these letters. It is fear (and not evil, as is often believed) that prevents love from opening up. Just as a magical gift can become a curse, fear brings destruction if it is not learned to control.

Dost, how interesting it is to learn life lessons when you are far from young. The great ignorance of man lies in his confidence that he has felt and experienced everything. This (and not wrinkles and gray hair) is the real old age and death.

We have a friend, psychologist Jean, we met at a shelter. We took Mars, and he took a tailless red cat. Recently Jean asked people whether they were satisfied with their lives. Most responded positively. Then Jean asked the following question: “Do you want to live as you are for another two hundred years?” The respondents' faces were contorted.

People get tired of themselves, even joyful ones. Do you know why? They always expect something in return - from circumstances, faith, actions, loved ones. “It's just a path. Enjoy,” Jean smiles and invites us to his place for onion soup. We agreed on next Sunday. Are you with us?

I miss. Dad

We all really need each other

The onion soup was a great success. It was interesting to watch the preparation, especially the moment when Jean put the garlic-rubbed croutons into pots of soup, sprinkled them with Gruyere and into the oven. A couple of minutes later we enjoyed the soupe à l "oignon. We washed it down with white wine.

We've been wanting to try onion soup for a long time, but somehow never got around to it. It was hard to believe that it was tasty: the memories of school broth with coarsely chopped boiled onions did not induce appetite.

“In my opinion, the French themselves have forgotten how to properly prepare the classic soupe à l"oignon, and are constantly coming up with new recipes, one tastier than the other. In fact, the main thing in it is the caramelization of onions, which will happen if you take sweet varieties. Add sugar - extreme! And, of course, it is important who you share the meal with. The French do not eat onion soup alone. “It’s too warm and cozy for that,” my Isabelle said.”

That was the name of Jean's grandmother. He was a boy when his parents died in a car accident, and he was raised by Isabelle. She was a wise woman. On her birthday, Jean cooks onion soup, gathers friends, and remembers her childhood with a smile.

Jean is from Barbizon, a city in northern France where artists came from all over the world to paint landscapes, including Monet.

“Isabelle taught me to love people and help those who are different. Maybe because such people in our village at that time stood out among a thousand inhabitants, and it was too hard for them. Isabelle explained to me that “normal” is a fiction, beneficial to those in power, as they supposedly demonstrate our insignificance and inadequacy to the fictitious ideal. People who consider themselves flawed are easier to manage... Isabelle accompanied me to school with the words: “I hope today you will meet your unique self.”

...It was a magical evening, Dostu. The space around us was filled with wonderful stories, mouth-watering aromas, and new shades of taste. We sat at a set table, the radio sang “Life is beautiful” in the voice of Tony Bennett; the overfed Mars and the quiet, red-haired Mathis were snoring at their feet. We were filled with a bright peace - life goes on.

Jean remembered Isabelle, Maria and I remembered our grandparents. Mentally we thanked them and asked for forgiveness. Because, as they grew older, they needed their care less and less. But they still loved and waited.

Dost, in this strange world we all really need each other.

I miss. Dad

Our only task is to love life

You probably have déjà vu. Jean explains these outbreaks by reincarnation: the immortal soul in a new incarnation remembers what it felt in the previous body. “So the Universe suggests that there is no need to be afraid of earthly death, life is eternal.” It's hard to believe.

Over the past twenty years, déjà vu has not happened to me. But yesterday I felt how exactly a moment of my youth was repeated. In the evening, a storm broke out, and Amir and I finished things earlier than usual: he put out the dough for the morning bread, I stewed the apples with cinnamon for the puff pastries. A new product from our bakery that is loved by our customers. Puff pastry cooks quickly, so we usually make only the filling in the evening.

By seven the bakery was locked.

Deep in thought, I walked home along the raging ocean. Suddenly a prickly blizzard hit my face. Defending myself, I closed my eyes and was suddenly transported into memories of fifty years ago.

I'm eighteen. War. Our battalion defends the border on a mountain with a ridge seventy kilometers long. Minus twenty. After the night offensive there were few of us left. Despite being wounded in the right shoulder, I cannot leave my post. The food is over, the water is running out, the order is to wait until morning. Reinforcements are on the way. At any moment the enemy can mow down the remnants of the battalion.

Cold and exhausted, at times almost losing consciousness from pain, I stood at my post. The storm raged without abating, lashing me from all sides.

Dostu, then I first knew despair. Slowly, inevitably, it takes hold of you from within, and you cannot resist it. At such moments you can’t even concentrate on prayer. You're waiting. Salvation or end.

Do you know what held me back then? A story from childhood. Hiding under the table at one of the adult gatherings, I heard it from Grandma Anna. Working as a nurse, she survived the siege of Leningrad.

My grandmother recalled how once, during a long shelling, a cook in a bomb shelter was cooking soup on a burner. From what they were able to collect: some gave a potato, some an onion, some a handful of cereals from pre-war reserves. When it was almost ready, she took off the lid, tasted it, added some salt, returned the lid to its place: “Another five minutes and it’s ready!” Exhausted people lined up for stew.

But they couldn’t eat that soup. It turned out that laundry soap got into it: the cook did not notice how it stuck to the lid when she put it on the table. The food was spoiled. The cook burst into tears. No one stuttered, reproached, or looked reproachfully. In the most difficult circumstances, people did not lose their humanity.

Then, while on duty, I remembered again and again this story, told in Anna’s voice. He survived. Morning came and help arrived. I was taken to the hospital.

Dost, a person is not given the opportunity to fully understand life, no matter how hard he tries. It seems to us that we understand what, how and why it works. But every new day its serpentines and junctions prove the opposite - we are always at our desks. And the only task is to love life.

I miss. Dad

I'll wait for you as long as you need

When I met your mother, she was married. She's twenty-seven, I'm thirty-two. He immediately confessed his feelings to her. “I’ll wait for you as long as necessary.” He continued to come to the library where she worked, borrowed books, but that was all. I waited for Maria for four years, although she did not promise that she would come.

Later I found out: she thought I would cool down and switch to another. But I was adamant. This is not love at first sight, but the minute when you see a person and understand: this is the one. At our first meeting, I decided that this girl with brown hair would be my wife. And so it happened.

I was waiting for her myself, but I didn’t expect anything from her. Not that she will give birth to children for me and fill my house with comfort; nor that will continue to follow the road that brought us together. The deep confidence that we would be together under any circumstances swept aside all doubts.

Meeting with Maria is the absence of hesitation even when it seemed that there was no hope.

I knew that our lives would intersect, I never stopped believing in it, although there were plenty of reasons to doubt it.

Everyone deserves to meet their person, but not everyone gets it. Some do not allow their will to strengthen and lose faith, others, disappointed, notice only the unsuccessful experience of the past, and some do not wait at all, being content with what they have.

Your birth strengthened our connection with Mary. This was another gift from Fate. We were so passionate about each other and work (love is a wonderful combination of friendship and passion) that the thought of a child did not occur to us. And suddenly life sent us a miracle. You. Our souls and bodies united, merged into one, and the path became common. We tried our best to love and protect you, but there were some mistakes.

I remember how Maria, rocking you to sleep, worried: “Everything in her is changing so quickly that I dream of stopping time like never before.” Nothing gave us greater happiness than seeing you, a sleepy little one, open your eyes, look at us and smile at the fact that we are your dad and mom.

Dostu, barriers to happiness are an illusion of the subconscious, fears are empty worries, and dreams are our present. She is reality.

I miss. Dad

Madness is half wisdom, wisdom is half madness

Until recently, Umid, a good-natured rebel boy, worked in our bakery. He delivered baked goods to homes. His clients loved him, especially the older generation. He was helpful, although he rarely smiled. Umid reminded me of twenty years old - a volcano of internal protest that was about to burst out.

Umid was brought up in a Catholic school and dreamed of becoming a priest. When he was growing up, he dropped out of school and left home. “Many believers pretend to be someone they are not.”

The day before yesterday Umid announced that he was resigning. Moving.

“I don’t want to live in this damn city. I'm tired of calling its ugliness uniqueness, and the hypocrisy of society - a property of mentality. You visitors cannot see how rotten everything is here. And eternal winter is not a feature of the geographical location, but a curse. Look at our government, all they do is talk about love for their homeland. If they started talking about patriotism, it means they were stealing. But it’s our own fault: when they elected themselves, we were sitting in front of the TV with popcorn.”

Amir tried to persuade Umid to think carefully, but I remained silent. I remember being a teenager very well - nothing could stop me. Impulsive decisions helped get things moving.

Dostu, did you know that my grandfather Barish was a teacher at the theological seminary? He and I talked about God more than once. I felt a higher power above me, but religious dogmas caused me rejection.

One day, excited by Barysh’s calm reaction to another school injustice, I blurted out: “Grandfather, it’s nonsense that everything is always on time! Our will determines too much. There is no miracle or predestination. Everything is just will.”

The young man patted me on the shoulder. “Your words confirm that everyone has their own way of going through life. About forty years ago I would have agreed with you recklessly, but now I understand that the Almighty is invariably nearby and that everything is precisely in His will. And we are only children - some are persistent, creative, purposeful, some, on the contrary, are pure contemplators. However, we are as we appear from above.”

At the time, my grandfather’s words seemed like fiction to me, but over the years I turned to them more and more often. Not from the desire to find peace in the highest, but from the realization that in this world everything is in balance: half of madness consists of wisdom, wisdom - of madness.

Umid could not be persuaded. He needed to leave to understand: sometimes it is impossible not to love people, even if they seem bad.

I miss. Dad

Forget about time and everything will work out

Today I finally made Lithuanian bread. I tried to bake it for a week, but I couldn’t. Sometimes too sweet, sometimes too sour. This bread initially has high acidity, which is balanced with honey - so I couldn’t find a middle ground. The proofing of the dough was also difficult - the crumb was sticking out from the cracks in the finished loaf.

Amir explained that the dough according to the Lithuanian recipe is sensitive and requires full involvement in the process. You can't be distracted while kneading. “Forget about time, and everything will work out.” I tried it. The bread came out excellent, whole, chocolate-appetizing in appearance. On the second or third day it began to turn out even tastier. You would like it, Dostu.

The reason for our disappointments is often that we are not in the present, we are busy with memories or waiting.

I always hurried you, daughter. Sorry. I wanted you to have as much time as possible. Maybe because I missed a lot in my childhood? After the war, schools and libraries were rebuilt. I had so many desires to learn, to recognize, to comprehend, but there were no opportunities.

I was afraid that the child would repeat my fate.

I tormented you with haste, whereas from an early age you had your own special rhythm. At first I was worried about your slowness, but then I noticed: Dostu manages to do everything.

Do you remember how Lisa Brunovna, a primary school teacher, called you a “wise turtle”? You weren't offended. On the contrary, she smiled and asked us to give you an aquarium turtle for your birthday so that you could call it by your name.

You taught Maria and me to appreciate the moment. We didn’t understand this, we worked like driven horses, trying to do everything at once. We needed to part with you, face the emptiness, move here in order to realize that the abyss of years had left us no time to stop and feel how much was slipping between our fingers: silence, peace, transitions from one state to another.

Here, in the City of Eternal Winter, there is a popular wisdom: “No one can be brought to where he himself has not yet reached.”

I recently read that people usually identify themselves exclusively with action: they strive to forget about death, or more precisely, their fear of it. The pursuit of new achievements and impressions helps to get away from sad thoughts.

There is no use in running away! The fear will grow, pressing until you look into his eyes. And when you look, you will understand that there is nothing scary.

I miss. Dad

I want to hug you so bad

Among the letters written to you there are those that I don’t dare send. They are on the same paper, in the same envelopes as the others, but about something else. About despair. I’m not ashamed of him, but I don’t want you to read how sometimes your father... doesn’t believe.

Despair is called the last and main tool of the devil; he uses it against the most persistent, when previous methods - pride, jealousy, hatred - are powerless.

Maybe this is true, but I am sure: there are no people who do not experience despair at times. However, it recedes, you just have to accept that life is impossible without sorrows, losses and that they are transitory.

When the blues set in, I stay late at work, kneading dough for buns. I come home when Maria is sleeping. I change clothes, take Mars for a walk, wait until morning and return to the bakery to take the baked goods to the nearest orphanages. These trips help dispel the feeling of uselessness of the days lived.

In my youth, I drowned my despair with alcohol, hiding from it in noisy companies behind a curtain of cigarette smoke. It didn't get any easier. Then I chose solitude. It helped.

When you left, despair began to come more often and linger longer. Hard. If only your mother didn't feel it. Although sometimes it seems to me that she herself is holding on with all her might.

What is my despair about? About different things. About parents mercilessly taken away by the war. About hunger and death of innocent children. About books burning along with houses. About humanity not learning from repeated mistakes. About people who drive themselves into loneliness as soon as they stop sharing their warmth with others.

My despair is that I cannot hug you, daughter.

I will definitely remind myself (wouldn’t this be cheating?) that I can hug you in my memories, that the material world is not an obstacle for souls who love each other. I will console Maria with this when I see her crying over your photograph. But now I don’t believe in anything - I carry pain and protest within me. I walk quickly along the shore or bake bread.

I like fiddling with dough, Dost. Feel its living warmth, inhale the aroma of bread, crunch with a ringing crust. Knowing that what I baked will be eaten by children. A girl with the same freckles as you. This thought in desperate days gives strength to return home and live on.

I miss. Dad

Living things cannot remain unchanged

At noon we visited the mosque with Amir. Today is his parents' birthday. They died on the same day, three years apart. They were buried in Amir’s homeland, in a village with rough quince plantations.

My friend misses his parents and everything he left behind in his native land. There is a seventh year of war there between government troops and armed opposition units. The latter legalized slavery in the territories under their control - and this is now, in the twenty-first century!

“I can’t return because of the war, and my wife and children are against it. All cemeteries in the village were bombed, people have no place to visit the dead. I go to the mosque, although I am not religious. Here I hear the voices of my father and mother more clearly than anywhere else.”

As a person ages, he thinks about what will happen after death. According to Islam, every Muslim has a new life in heaven or hell. Depends on how you lived - righteously or sinfully. I ask Amir if he believes in an afterlife. “Not really. Both heaven and hell are on earth, like all rewards and punishments. I think everyone there will get what they believed in here.”

While Amir was in the mosque, I took a walk around. Children waiting for their parents played snowballs, and in response to their hubbub, sparrows flew from high-voltage wires and circled over the little ones. Our city is beautiful. Covered in snow all year round, it itself is like snow - cold, white, beautiful.

There are stone tombstones in the backyard. Previously, spiritual leaders were buried here; it was considered honorable to be buried near the mosque. I looked at the graves and thought that living here and now is still the truest form of being. We are guests in this world and we have little time.

...Amir is a man of amazing calm, both external and internal. He is twenty-six years younger than me, but his reaction to what is happening is simple, humble, without rebellion, loud questions - I don’t always succeed in this. He is contemplative but caring.

Amir's daily routine consists of the same actions: he wakes up at half past five in the morning, brews coffee with cardamom, prepares breakfast for his family, goes to the bakery, plays the guitar at lunchtime, returns home in the evening, has a hearty dinner (the first course is orange soup). lentils), reads to the children and goes to bed. The next day everything repeats itself.

I find such a predictable routine boring. Amir is happy. No explanations, comparisons. He walked towards this for a long time - to live in harmony with himself, to enjoy the love of what he built.

“I lived for many years at the mercy of my parents’ desires. They were against “tinkering with the dough.” And I absolutely loved baking, spending hours on end watching my mother prepare cakes with anise or cornmeal pie. My father beat me for such interest, dragged me to the slaughterhouse, wanted me to continue his work.”

Amir was married to his second cousin. They lived for nine months, the girl died of malaria. “I couldn’t say no to my father and mother.” I felt obligated."

After the death of his parents, Amir married again: to the girl he loves with all his heart.

Because of the war I had to leave the village. The city of eternal winter accepted Amir, here he opened a bakery and is raising twin daughters.

Dostu, changes, even the most drastic ones, are the best seasoning for life. It’s impossible without them. Living things cannot remain unchanged.

I miss. Dad

The attraction between us lives its own life

There are also warm days here. As per schedule, on the twentieth of March the first bright sun appears, in honor of which a holiday is held. His main treat is matahari. Golden-colored raisin buns with a creamy taste. At first I decided that the baked goods were named after the dancer. It turns out she had nothing to do with it. Matahari means "sun" in Malay.