Sowing Pearls ofWisdom Sowing Pearls ofWisdom - Literacy Suffolk

Moment of Eternity
By Natalya Kanevsky
he little shop was selling medicinal
herbs, roots, and seeds. I contemplated
T
over a ceramic mortar and placed it
back. I chose the “Gypsy potion for
cold” and walked over to the checkout. A middleaged
African American man appeared in the back
doorway and stood up behind the counter. “It’ll
start to snow,” said he instead of a greeting,
“tomorrow.” And it will continue to snow until
Friday.
I unintentionally made a wry face and immediately
felt ashamed. The snow makes sense when
there are small children in the house who love
making snowmen and laugh when whirled along
on the sled. I don’t have such children. What do I
need the snow for? “What about me?” asked a little
girl within me. “You, yourself, were saying that
as long as there is you, all that made the soul sing
is forever. Are you no longer?” “I am always here”
– stern tone, reproachful stare from underneath
the straight chestnut-coloured fringe. “Do you
remember how scared you were to slide down the
higher hill? There was a large oak growing right
on the track. To you it seemed that inevitably you
would run into the tree, even though the trail was
bending away from it. For a long time you could
not bring yourself to have a go, but then you did.
It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time,
and nothing happened.”
“And what about huge snowflakes on the nap of
the prickly mitts – each with its own tracery? And
what about staying home with tonsillitis on a condition
that mom on the way home would pick up
new books? And drinking hot tea with lemon;
and the pile of books by the bedside; and watching
the white-white snow fall…? Or riding from
school on the back of the freezing-cold tram and
watching the running away graphics of the railway
tracks, the overhead cables, and the black tree
branches.” It is since then I love black and white
images…
Out loud, however, in answer to the man behind
the counter, stubbornly I said, “No one likes to
drive on the snow.” I do,” he answered. “I love
everything when there is snow. Winter is my
favourite time of the year. In summer, I am faded.
I can’t stand the heat.” I wonderingly looked into
his eyes – was he joking? He was not. His darkchocolate
skin around the eyes, where the wrinkles
are, was almost black. But…not knowing
how to express the thought delicately I halted—
“You have pigmentation. The sun should not
bother you…” “Fairy tales,” the African American
grinned. “The heat kills me.”
“Where are you from?” – I
asked. The little girl inside
me smirked. Indeed, back
then the thought to ask
would never have entered
the mind. “From the
south,” he answered,
pointing up with a vague
motion. As the result of
this motion I began to see
the mountains…from the south of the country,
the continent, the planet? Perhaps he is from the
South Pole? Nevertheless I did not ask. Let it be
simply – from the south.
“I love to work in my garden when it’s cold.
Wearing just a shirt,” said the man, his eyes filled
with dreaminess. “I love to fish in ice… Do you
know what kind of winds we get and how they
blow along the alleys? When it’s windy and snowing
it’s impossible to simply walk – it will wipe
you off your feet and bury you – no one will find
you. There are stretched cables between the houses,
the barns and down towards the water and
when it is windy you can move only by holding
onto these cables.”
“I, too, love the winter. Only…only my feet
always freeze,” said I, just to say something. He
hesitated but I wanted for him to continue.
“The women are more sensitive to cold. My wife
is always cold. Even in summer she starts the fire-
place, closes all of the windows, and puts on three
sweaters. And she is happy. Possibly, it is because
she is very small and thin. I live in a separate room.
There, I never turn the heater on. And the windows
are always open. Sometimes the snow gets into the
room. But it’s okay. You know, I love to sit in the
armchair next to the open window and look at my
winter garden under the moonlight. I love the
black tree trunks and the birds on the snow…”
“And long, dark blue shadows,” I thought. Aloud,
however, I said, “Thank you.” I paid for the herbs
and walked out. A little bell on the door jingled…
As I was starting the car I was thinking that every
time it starts snowing I will see the mountains of
the mysterious South, where the blizzard spreads
its magic over the snow-covered alleys. I will see the
house where one half of it is heated up so much
that even thick timber walls are glowing pink like
living flesh with the bright light behind it. There,
the thin woman is reaching for the fire. In the
other half of the house, where the little blizzards
swirl into the dark-blue corners, the dark-skinned
owner is sitting in the armchair next to the open
window and looking at his snow-covered garden
in the moonlight. The large snowflakes are falling
onto the sleeves of the red-checkered woolen shirt;
and each with its own tracery…
Victor and Natasha are natives of Lithuania. They
left for political and economic reasons, and spent several
years in Israel waiting to come to America. They
came here five years ago with their young son, Anthony.
Victor is a very accomplished man, having owned and
operated several businesses. He is also a published
author and journalist, and his works are illustrated
by his beautiful wife, Natasha. Natasha has also
been published, both her writings and illustrations
C’est la vie
By Vic Strelets
It was only a dream, just a dream.
Don’t be angry with me, do not scream.
I was under your spell, simply drunk.
Unbelievably, hopelessly drunk.
I was drunk from the smell of your hair.
From your sincere and genuine stare.
I was lucky to love you but once
And I, destiny, thank for the chance.
Oh! That moment was very intense.
Like a storm—came and went. Makes no sense…
Who controls our deaths, our lives?
Who decides on the luck of the dice?
Dying we leave behind our love.
Our homes we’ll keep safe from above.
With no pity, like dolts, our heads
We slit open… But where all this ends?
And the journey—what’s there, what awaits?
What we’ll find at the big pearly gates?
We’re like children of two and to five
In the midst of the walls, through our lives.
Seek the freedom. The freedom’s the dream.
And the dream—look behind—very dim!
I’ll come back, I am tired, please call.
Journey’s tough and it’s taking its toll.
To drop everything is my desire.
Only—wait … do not call, as the fire
is still burning. Don’t cry, do not weep!
C’est la vie, c’est la vie….
appearing in books and journals. Her artwork has
a style of its own, and depicts her unique view of life.
Her medium is black and white, as seen from the
accompanying illustration.
I have been meeting with Victor and Natasha for
nearly a year, and find them very endearing.We are
currently working on citizenship test requirements,
as they will be eligible later this year.
(Rose Passannante, tutor)
48 READING FOR LIFE 2OO8 • Student Writing LITERACY SUFFOLK, INC. • Sowing Pearls of Wisdom 49