house [Theme] Page 5

and the meadow could be seen blooming ...

Dropping dreams...

My city.

I'm glad if we call the same place home.

May is tenderness, hovering everywhere. This is the smile of the sun's rays, waking up the house and filling the soul with happiness. These are dawns that begin with gratitude. This is the sky holding a lot of sun in the chest. This is the morning bead of laughter, scattered over the meadows and echoing the cuckoo in the forest. These are waves of joy every day. These are half-sighs of apple orchards, showering their ruddy foliage, so that a new summer will bloom in place of seasoned grasses. It's a wicker basket of fresh fruit on the kitchen table. This is a sweet, slightly bitter smell of lilac that fills every corner of the space. This is fragrant jasmine tea and fragrant cake with last year's raspberries in a blooming garden. These are the yellow pages of your favorite old books in the armchair in the evenings. This is when it's so good that you just want to be silent. Close your eyes and gently hug the month of May.

Somewhere out there, far away, inspired, she flies to her date, beautiful, with a magical glow on her face in love. And on a completely different side of the planet, two such seemingly native people hold hands, cry and look into each other's tired eyes, say goodbye. Because there are no more wings behind their backs that would raise them to dreams. Someone drinks tea in their small empty apartment, biting with loneliness. And someone is building a house together, dreams and thoughts of a happy old age and cheerful grandchildren. This is life, so different, unique, but so painfully beautiful. To go through trials, to be tormented, to fill bumps and, with terrifying pangs of conscience, to slap others in the face, to take off and fall and take off again. To meet her, the one and only. Love.

A magical combination - the smell of bitter black coffee and the sweet aroma of blooming lilacs in the morning coolness, as if a good perfume leaves a trail of special mood for the whole day.

We are mere mortal temporary people on this Earth, but each of us has land, there is a cemetery, there is a maternity hospital, there is a mother, a father, there are roots, there is an exit ... Not an escape, not disappearance ... I'm already creeping up on the word " betrayal". It seems to me that the greatest crime and the most difficult act or offense is to betray, betray a loved one, betray your land, betray your home, relatives, friends, betray yourself. <...> In recent years, I live according to the principle of three concepts. You know, it's like they say, the Earth on three whales... Each of us has some rules that we want to comply with. Patience, sacrifice and non-betrayal. Under these three concepts, today I preserve myself, work, and want to leave all of myself to my long-suffering, centuries-old, tired, but very dreaming of my Motherland, which I wish you too.

She leafs through a book, cools her tea.

- Where can you get me? I suppose I live on earth, and she, mother, is common to all of us. We drink the same water, we breathe the same air. The earth itself is your home - live as you like, even along, even across, and no one can tell you! And if you don’t have your own hut, you don’t need it - what you don’t have, you will never lose. I, like your cat, do not need a booth. I'm not a chain. Not tied to one place.

Once one climbs to the top, he will never get down from there.

I am not at all guided by love for the owner of a given house - whom I often do not know at all - when, seeing his house on fire, I grab a bucket of water and run to his house, even though I was not in the least afraid for my own: I am guided by a wider one, although a more indefinite feeling, or rather an instinct, of universal human solidarity, that is, mutual responsibility between all people, and cohabitation.

“It’s even unusual to feel so much love at once,” my mother said two days before her death. I doubt that any of us will be lucky - so to speak - to die such a perfect death when our time comes. To die rather quickly and completely painlessly, under the supervision of their own children, in the circle of a loving family. A couple of days before my mother's death, almost by accident, the whole family: children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren - gathered in the house. In addition, two of her old friends arrived. While she lay in her bedroom on the second floor, we gathered at the dinner table, reminiscing about her life, drinking in memory of her, although she was still alive, and enjoying dinner prepared by my future wife, Kate.

Home is the holy of holies. You should not, except in extreme cases, borrow dishes from neighbors, especially use the same well, bathhouse, not to mention clothing. Whistle or point fingers at home.