THE SUN

To my son
A bright light; light flares on the carpet, on the furniture...
No, it’s not with the eyes but with the ears: an unusual noise, chirping of sparrows, cooing of pigeons, sounds of some other birds, soft rumple of the cars running in the street under the windows.
Even a truck is producing some good hearted groans. A trolleybus is singing, whistling, and ringing. It breathes out, — and the doors open. It breathes in, — and the passengers go in, nestle, and the doors close. Reeling, it’s moving forward towards the sun, under the morning breeze, past the cool young leaves on the wet asphalt, passing those in a hurry by, moving farther away from all, wanting to help everyone.
...No, it’s with my heart: it is, it is near. Something pleasant is tickling my hair, my eyes, my stomach, and pulls out a happy sigh, filled with pink, blue, light green and dark blue. I take a few sips of air... My breath is caught... and a foretaste of happiness wakes me up.
... I feel... I hear.... Good. I open my eyes... I realize it…
The sun! Hooray! I luxuriate in the bed... Even the sheets are somehow affectionate and gentle, they don’t want to let me go. But it’s the sun! And I throw everything off. Forward! Towards the clean breath of the wind, the relaxed asphalt, the colored, hot, washed city... with the memories of the cool, calm, kind, reliable Home!
...Home! The shield. The fortress. The nest. The beginning and the end. Love and hate. Happiness and sorrow. All the best, the wise, the kind, and the real: the parents! A bright splash in my chest: the memory!
I'm following the call of my heart... cautiously and stealthily... I'm afraid to frighten him off... There, through a crack: the most important, beloved, the only one, cute, kind, trusting, and softly wheezing in the sleeping maze: my son!
... My son! A splash of light is sitting on his blanket with bunnies. It slowly sneaks up to his hand. Good, that's right, slowly, with care... He stirs, moves, smiles. Three blue bursts follow. One: it’s cold and swift like a mountain stream. Two: it’s pure and motionless like Karelian lakes. Three: a hot shot in the chest.
 — Mom, don’t go! I’ve woken up!
A point of rest and a fair wind. What else?
Marina Luch. May 1987