Two men, father and son, were sitting at the our table. My mother poured little bit vodka in tiny grass. The father and her drank together.
The son was leaving to the war. A bag was near his feet.
“To the recruiting center” – the father said.
“Too far", - my mother replied.
“We walk" – the father replied.
And they started to talk about the old days, before the
revolution in 1917.
“The war is not the same now" – the father said again
after drinking another little glass of vodka.
“Bless him" – he asked my mother.
“No father" – the young man looked at his father. And
he tried to stand fast, almost dropping spoon in plate.
“Sit down" – his father looked at him so strong, that
the young man sat and started to eat again.
“I will. It's for the war" – my mother smiled – “You
only come back".
She took another chair and sat close to the young man.
The young man just turned to and didn't say anything.
My mother touched his cheek.
“It is my blessing. It will go for generations. For everyone
who will touch your hand, who will go after. Nothing can stand against
it".
Remember his name, she told me, before they were leaving.
Every morning, all war, we would pray about him.
When they left, my mother looked at the window.
“Communist “ – she said.
