Silence reduces the distance. We find each other. Birds sing not only mine, but also in your garden. Once we had a garden for two. Now we have become richer. Everyone has their own garden. The tops of my trees bear against the sky, and your roots penetrate it.
What has changed around? It’s nothing. People are always somewhere, and you are often left as a child, and we got bored waiting. Now, do not wait. Previously, we were offended, now – no. I want to say “remember,” but I will not tell.
Memories make us even more lonely. We become like trees in winter. I look at their naked flesh, shyly turns his head away and do not know where to go, what to do with this cloud called soul.
My memory is behind your back, you’re a hot pan fry the seeds, water them with sunflower oil, sprinkle with salt and a tablespoon gently, slowly, stirred. I walk closer, you feel my breath, and as if nothing had happened, “Son, now dozharyu they have cooled a bit, and we’ll go to football. There is still time.”
Yes, time, unlike us, are always there. Not only are you grown old. “Do not talk about it.” – “Yes, you’re right. Do not.”
Each of their denial of what is happening. Yours – in this, my – in the past. Events like raindrops, failing to appear, disappear, dissolve in our mind and heart keeps us afloat, and we like goose floats leave ripples life.
Dad, when you’re not with me on the ground, I’ll be with you in heaven.
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