We drag out the remnants of furniture, the crashed fridge and the mouse king-like looking metal fusion where there used to be pans, pots, and waffle irons. Everything is buried in ashes: the memories in the notches on the door jambs with children's names scribbled along, the forgotten smiles in cracked figurines, the daydreams in the survived half-finished knitting. In the doorless rooms, clothes and toys, the shelves, still filled with fairy tales and schoolbooks, stand covered with dust and soot.
One look at this burnt, disfigured space, the shelled fence, enormous craters in the backyard and lush cherry trees sprinkled with hard, sweet berries makes us silent and dizzy with thoughts.
The owner comes in dirty overalls, with a cig stuck between his teeth. He pushes the bathroom wall, and it falls into a pile of bricks like a tired Atlant. He says he’s not sorry for the things, that things don’t matter, not even that expensive Swiss microwave.
Still, he picks up a melted ashtray and smiles, then finds chipped mugs and jars and carefully lines them up on top of the cracked basement.
One look at this burnt, disfigured space, the shelled fence, enormous craters in the backyard and lush cherry trees sprinkled with hard, sweet berries makes us silent and dizzy with thoughts.
The owner comes in dirty overalls, with a cig stuck between his teeth. He pushes the bathroom wall, and it falls into a pile of bricks like a tired Atlant. He says he’s not sorry for the things, that things don’t matter, not even that expensive Swiss microwave.
Still, he picks up a melted ashtray and smiles, then finds chipped mugs and jars and carefully lines them up on top of the cracked basement.
