Прохор Озорнин - On the Wings of Hope - Prose

Water, slowly dripping from a ceiling. A peep of rats behind a wall. Two boys and a girl, nestled to each other. Sleeping. What is awaiting them the next day?

Next five hundred sixty-seven days…

***

A pen, being put aside. Sheets of paper, piled upon each other. He will continue his work tomorrow – continue writing. He still has much to tell people.

A still young man with a strange for the random passerby radiant sight left his table. Yes, he's going to continue the work he devoted himself to tomorrow.

He reflected for a moment and smiled. How lovely and natural her sister was! She has been living that way even now, living as a child, still capable to take care of her and others. She has been living like that even now, when troubles and misfortunes of their past have been overcome, having left a large hem in a memory. Slowly healing hem.

Have all the lessons been learned? Is the meaning of his life's events been understood? Were answers, given to the questions, asked by life itself, honorable and wise? Questions asked more than ten years ago… Much has been understood and comprehended, but more is awaiting him on his road. And he'll try to analyze results of his selections, comprehend own errors. He'll make it in the book – his first book. No, in their common book – a book of their life. Two brothers and a sister.

His sister called him yesterday by phone. Her voice was, as always, melodious and joyful. A lovely voice of a close person. Yes, she rejoiced her new life. Was indeed happy. She was granted a new role in a remarkable film – a role of a gentle wife and loving mother, the one, which she so perfectly carries out now in her own family. In a family with no insult and hatred ever possible, one without mistrust and self-interest, with a light and air of freedom, gentle aroma of love and mutual aid and assistance, trust, gratitude and kindness – where all that is present as a basis, a core. She's truly happy in that family of hers – she always spoke so… shared her joy in their meetings.

He's happy as well, in his new work.

Only his brother doesn't send news for quite a while. Never mind, he'll sure will, when returning from abroad. He's now a businessman, influential one and a man of action – largest magnates of a country listen to his opinion. Yet this sort of power hasn't spoiled him, he – they all – were given a lesson of deprivations for a reason. It made them kinder and wiser, despite the obstacles, in spite of the barriers.

Now each of them implements his own dream. Just as they once dreamed…

Someone will probably say, that it's a miracle and shed a few tears with a joy in own eyes. Somebody will be wrinkled mistrustfully, having muttered that all this “story” of his own life, embodied in a book, have much in common with a ridiculous fairy tale and silly fictions. Some will thank him for an advice. Some will start applying the advice in own life. And he himself will name it – a Trial, a life's test. A test, symbolizing the beginning of new ones… each and every day.

Is that truly a miracle that after almost five years of wanderings, they, at last, managed to be arranged in some circus to look after animals, and when some unknown actress left the group, the attention of circus managers was suddenly turned to his little sister, to her live and childish spontaneity… to her unspeakable beauty in that spontaneity?

And then there were years – years of hard work. So very different years.

He's been made a gymnast – along with the natural dexterity he coped perfectly with that role. His brother has been taught to juggle. Their sister began to conduct shows. This was the beginning of their new life's journey.

Is that really a miracle that his sister soon became an actress – and her charm and sincere beauty have brought her a world's fame?

Whether that a miracle that his brother, having saved a small fortune, opened a business, which has grown into the largest transnational company?

Whether that a miracle that, wishing with all his heart to seek answers to life questions, to learn himself and to teach others making right choices, – became a writer?

He won't name it a miracle, he'll call it a Sign – a sign of the way. His and their way – a way which they must – have been obliged to – pass to become the ones they have become.

To cope with challenges. To feel no fear of obstacles. To believe in fine dreams, to implement them in one's life. To become a Man, a man with a capital letter.

To be him.

21.12.2004

I stopped. I stopped when have noticed a picture, totally breaking all conceivable and inconceivable laws of human logic. It wasn't simply strange… it was… somewhat ridiculous… amazing.

For a couple of years already I have been a regular visitor of this establishment, was there on a two-three month basis, I got used to beholding yellow walls with shelled and falling off the plaster, constantly sad faces of its people… used to see queues of older persons all with lowered heads and sad expressions on them, used to observe how some of them not without the help from other colleagues have been forced to wait in longest many-hours queues in order to receive a priceless ticket, granting one the right to learn one's fate – for even they, these people, tried to appear here as seldom as ever possible, tried not to be at all.

I had to come here time and again – my current condition didn't allow me to do anything different. I had to stand in queues among the same brothers-by-misfortune, to listen to silently-cold voices of doctors, ascertaining deterioration of your disease and constantly diligently drawing something on your out-patient card, without troubling themselves with any comments on that subject, though.

I got accustomed to this place, despite all its absurd. I could do no other. I cared no longer of what my doctors would tell me – my own sentence I have known for quite a while already and for a long time have reconciled to it. Different thoughts occupied my mind – I thirsted to know why these men so diligently avoided to look you in the face while reading your diagnosis, leaving you no options of survival – not in this life at least, not during ten incoming years. I was truly curious why they, snow-white like a funeral shroud in this house of grief, only multiplied this grief with their indifferent faces, cold voices…

Was a monthly ascertaining of the absence of any positive changes in my illness really desired by me? Whether I really needed those endless inspections, required by no one, even myself? No. Not for this, I thirsted. I thirsted for words – a kind word of participation and understanding. I desired to hear words of support from them – just to know that some other can share your pain… simply to be aware of that. I wanted to behold a shine of joy – a joy of life – even in someone's eyes, once in many months… But, obviously, I desired too much… too much in this life – and hopes of mine could never come true.

Probably for that particular reason now I have stopped, being amazed at what I have seen. I would, certainly, not able to say anything meaningful first tens of seconds, if some casual passer-by has suddenly decided to inquire why was I standing with my mouth widely opened, hardly incorporating cold winter air. There were no such ones – and that's probably for the better.

That house of grief which I got used to observing for those almost two years, which I knew practically thoroughly, – it was no more both inside and outside. A sad inscription, engraved by dark gray letters “City hospital № 17” was gone, as well as lattices on windows and always-rude security guard, wiggling from constant sleep debt. Instead of an inscription, there was a bright… a signboard of sorts… have no idea how to name it, where new words were imprinted: “Townhouse of healing. We are happy to wish you a good health!” Lattices on windows disappeared as well, and there was a shining light, coming from windows… and when I have habitually risen up by stairs, I was greeted by an elegantly-dressed young man, who said something like “Come in, please. May you be always in good health!” and magnanimously opened me a door.