Small streets, tiny shops, messy.
Only one main street, abandoned in some places,
Wild grass instead of houses.
Five stories buildings, nineteen century house, water tower.
Old women near the market selling sunflowers seeds,
Train station, fountain, closed movie theater...
I am going back to my home town.
First stop, my grandmother's apartment building,
The last floor, this where I mostly grew up.
My grandfather giving me money,
I am may be in grade one.
We had nature stady class in grade five
And out teacher got this calendar with like space to mark direction for wind,
West, East, North or South.
We never had it, never seen in our city.
The teacher said it's good to have it,
But we can mark the line ourselves.
My aunt couldn't find it, she was living in the capital of our region, big city.
And I am looking from the balcony and I see my grandfather walking with the same calendar.
I was only one who had.
He was a night guard in army facilities.
Out giant dog is barking,
Every noise would make him jump up like if an army was breaking in the city.
The dog was close to one hundred sixty pounds,
We weighed him where people weight bags with vegetables.
Food and belly massage was everything.
Our own apartment on the third floor with small trees every spring, vegetables in little cups, everywhere.
We had bunnies, chickens and fluffy cat.
Go, go, see girls,
My mom would kit the cat out every morning.
Then my father running around,
Why is a kitten here.
Where else I go..
My father's new house,
With a but tab outside, the bathroom wasn't planned in the design.
With pigs and cows.
My aunt's house, it's gone now.
She is making my dress..
They used to live in one room.
My art school..
Our teacher tells me:
It's a nice picture, painting is not photography. .
That's all I want to see..
Poems,stories and pictures by Irina Mouravleva.
