Alexander Makarov. It's too early to bury us (№ 426766)

Eugene saw, very clearly, her whole life, and realized its value. She wanted to sit on the shore of the lake and touch the sand with her hands, clamp it in a fist and release it in a thin trickle back, watching every grain of sand intently. I wanted to look at the streaks on the plantain. Count the petals of daisies. Remember how they drew on their hands with calendula juice, imagining themselves indian princesses. Sniff spruce branches and young cones in the forest. And she touched, counted and sniffed. I remembered and cried. She pieced herself together. Anew. Digging up small details among the garbage.