Anthology of wounds - Arct

Anthology of WoundsOnce the neighborhood’s children that came oftenin our home, have pull off in the yard all her silk dowrybought in Italy and where wore as actors, and playedtheatre. From the counter of veranda a child had feltdown a jar with grape paste, about 30 kilograms, andhad began to cry from being afraid from punishment.My mother came. All the children were frozen. Herclothes were put over the roses of the garden and grapepaste had made dirty almost all the house. She laughand asked for me, put me in a room checked me if I washurt and then took all the clothes on the garden andbegan to clean the house, without scorns and withoutfrightening the children of the neighborhood to comeand play again. I tried to help her, but taking care shedidn’t understand I had done that work. She surely understoodbut didn’t thank me, when she knew this didn’tgive me pleasure.It was wartime and our father was carried with differentduties, so he rarely came home. But we were notalone because the mother took home poor and lonelywomen, waited them as the brides that go to theirmother’s home for a month. At the end she accompaniedpromising to invite them again next year. We wereso surprised by her devotion in this charity.Now except being silent she didn’t eat. But we neverunderstood the reason of her strike of hunger. Did she liketo leave us the ration of limited bread the state gave in thattime? Or hungry made her feel less spiritual pain….thosedays communists had sentenced to death even her nephewthat she loved so much and was a copy of her brother, forwhom I don’t believe she have never stopped crying untilshe went near him. Did she talk in those nights when shewas awake with her nephew, which waited to take away85