Snowy white
It is a snow-white, bright morning, and you are six. You have an open book under your pillow with a poem by Rylskyi that you had been memorizing all day. You believe that you will remember it better this way, that the lines will magically crawl into your head. You repeat it a few more times, your mom checks you, and you can already hear the pleasant crunch of snow under your feet. Crunch, crunch, "white flies have arrived," you mutter under your breath, crunch, crunch. Your mother's step, your four, and you start running, holding her hand. You go down the hill, mentally on a sleigh, cross the bridge, and you are already in the village. You enter the school and hear a noise coming from the gym, and you realize that we are going there, and you are scared. At some point, you appear in the middle of the gym, the crowd goes silent, and you hear your mom say, "Tell."
Follow me on Instagram.
