misha gordin

I remember life after the war.
Hiding in the ruins of the bombed buildings.
The man with no legs pushing his way on a tiny platform.
I remember playing alone.
I remember playing with the other children.
We did not have any toys.
We were making our own.
I remember the girl on the third floor.
She never played with us.
She was a ballerina.
I remember the stale smell of dark corridors.
I remember the drowned man exhausted from his last fight.
I remember faces that never smiled.
I remember my first day in school.
Hiding my face in the teachers lap and crying.
She let me go home.
I remember cold waters of the Baltic sea.
I remember sunsets and the silent silhouettes along the shoreline.
I remember the forest full of secrets.
I remember an unfinished painting and nobody around.
I remember the white aprons and the golden glow of fish in the baskets.
I remember the music teacher striking my fingers with a pencil.
I remember marching in a column.
I remember laying flowers to the monument of Lenin.
I remember my first glass of wine.
I remember the first girl I loved.
I remember my childhood.

Misha Gordin