Raisa

On September 2021 year, the phone rang, soft voice lovingly said: “Hello, my dear granddaughter! Happy birthday! Stay always well!” This call was from my grandmother. Two weeks later, she was gone. I didn’t realize that this was our last phone call – the understanding only dawned on me later. 

In the town where I live,the end of September is seizedby deep autumn with its first night frosts. Processing my grief and loss, I took long walks reassessing familiar surroundings with my footsteps. The nature around me was slowly dying. Dry golden leaves were falling on the ground, revealing thin branches of latent trees. The last flowers, carefully planted in spring, were enclosing their lively buds. The grass was withering into mournful hues of yellow, while the rivers were turning into frailice. First snow shrouded it all. 

I also felt shrouded, cloaked by my pain. Everyday day I walked through its veils as if passing through an impenetrable dark forest. Our last visit, our last phone call, endless memories of things that will never be again. What I am left withis all I have. I must not forget anything. 

The fear of forgetting became my all-consuming company, even though I knew that it was impossible. Impossible to forget her, impossible to erase images of her. I had to tell her story to preserve my memories - I am afraid they will fade otherwise. 

Sleeping nature continued to drop deeper into a dream. The nights became darker while the longing for the lost and bygone grew brighter. Sometimes, the longing would start to fade, only to return stronger than before. 

A life lived is a story told, but muchstays unsaid, especially between people. 

You ebbedand froze but did not disappear – just like a river ahead of a cold winter.