Vladimir Osipovich Bogomolov. The moment of truth. In August, forty-fourth (№ 184626)

For the umpteenth time, I dreamt of mother.
I didn't know where her grave actually buried and if she is human. Pictures of her I had, and in reality for some reason I couldn't visualize it clearly. In the dream she appeared to me quite often, I saw her clearly, with all the wrinkles and tiny scar on his upper lip. I wanted her to smile but she just cried. A small, thin, helpless sobbing, wiping tears with a handkerchief and wept again. Just like in Porto, when a boy, a greenhorn, I went a long time in swimming, or the last time at the station, before the war, when, athula vacation, I returned to the border.
From our shack in Novorossiysk survived and the Foundation, the mother - scary thought - there was no grave, no cards, nothing... her Life was bleak, lonely, and with me she drank... As I now felt sorry for her and how I missed...
With dreams I don't fuckin ' lucky. Mother from harassing me, certainly cried, but Alexei of Baasa - he dreamed of me last weeks time and again - definitely tortured. It tortured my eyes, I saw and was not able to do anything, even lift a finger couldn't, if he was paralyzed or did not exist.
Mother and Lyosha seemed to me distinctly, but those who it tortured, I, as tried, could not see: some vague shapes, as if without faces and uncertain uniform. No matter how much I strain, and nothing to cling to: no word of a portrait, nor will anything distinct, concrete... Heavy, a nightmare is a dream - Wake up exhausted like you gutted.