Escolar Documentos
Profissional Documentos
Cultura Documentos
Kseniya Belysheva
A memory slides through the water
My hands struggling to grasp its elusive entity
And as I catch a glimpse of its contents
I remember Grandpas chicken coop
As an old promise that never fades
The end of March was waning
Into the flowers of May
When Grandpa took my hand
And led me through the morning fog
To his chicken coop
Whistling a tune to a Russian folk song
And occasionally pointing at something
See the sunset, the way it rises just above the pine trees?
I would look and be mesmerized
Thats magic for you, hed laugh
And wed continue onward
Him sharing all his deep thoughts with me
And my eyes compiling every word
When we finally got there
He locked the fearsome rooster up
Before he set me free
To waddle around the pen
Reaching out for just a touch
Of the golden fur of a baby chick
But the chickens would herd their babies
To the space behind the coop
Where my pudgy fingers could never reach
And then when it seemed all hope was gone
Grandpa would chuckle and lift one chick into my hands
Saying, You watch over this guy, hes a special one.
And I remember being very careful with him
It was the same chick everytime
The same tuft of yellow fuzz every misty morning
Those days I never noticed that the chick had a limp
I only felt his yellow fur and saw his ebony eyes
I only saw what I wanted to see, what I needed to see
The same way I never noticed
That Grandpa started smoking lots of cigars
That my arms could reach all around his waist when I hugged him
And when we left Russia I waved good-bye to the same Grandpa