Who gives a damn?

10:34am: Who gives a damn?
No one does. Good bye, LiveJournal! It has become too dark of a place for me, where I sink even deeper into the thoughts that weigh me down. BlogSpot, here I come!!! http://luckynumber22.blogspot.com/

11:55am: According to Ellie...
Ellie annouced last night she wants to be a "cheater-leader" when she grows up. Does it mean she's going into politics?

9:03am: Rainbow
When I woke up this morning, there was a rainbow over me. Only it wasn't your traditional primary colored rainbow (каждый охотник желает знать где сидит фазан). This rainbow was different. It's underbelly was painted black - the color of bitterness, of blindness, of despair. Next came khaki green - the color of war. Crimson red followed - an angry, bloody color. Then dirty brown - a mirky color of sticky mud. After that, a sickly lemony yellow - the color of betrayal and cowardice. Gray was next - the color of indecision. And on top of it all was the color white - pure and simple, ready to be painted in any hue I choose...

12:08pm: November syndrom
When I was little, November, right around my birthday, was always the time when I got sick - year after year I would miss a week of school, laid up with some minor illness or other. It was as though the memories of the shock of being born, stored somewhere in my body, made it weak and defenseless at that particular time.

Still, despite the annual sickness, the month of November always held certain magic for me. Back home in Moscow, November days were shorter and gloomier than they are here, but toward the end of the month, snow would usually be firmly in place, and there was a distinct "winterness" in the air. As I got older, about 14-15, and full of romantic notions, I used to love to roam the old streets of downtown Moscow, those hidden, narrow, winding passageways where evidences of by-gone eras were all piled up one on top of the other, where the chaotic but charming, somewhat mysterious quality of Moscow was that much more evident. The magic hour was that very short, almost indescernible pre-dusk moment, when the sun (if indeed it was even out that day) was already setting but before the street lights would be turned on. Captured at that moment, Moscow stood full of secretive shadows that brought those quiet, forgotten streets and boulevards to life somehow and gave them back some of the old grace that had been stolen from them during the grim years of communist eradication. Painted against the wintery background, bare and coloress, even the abandoned churches and the old dilapidated mansions managed to recapture just a trace of their former glory. And as I walked on, and watched the trasnformation from dull to glorious to dull again, I thought that that quickly passing beauty of my city was my own secret discovery, my own intimate moment with it. So I loved my Novembers, punctuated at the end by my birthday, and filled with the expectation of the delights Decembers usually brought: the end of the semester, the holidays...

And even though I no longer get sick in November (at least not on a regular basis), I feel a certain "something" happening inside me during this month. Perhaps it could be as simply explained as a time to mentally recap yet another year of my life and to prepare to be a year older. Perhaps this internal weakness, this vulnerability I feel is the way my now mature body remembers the day it emerged into this world. Perhaps it is something else altogether... Who knows? But I still have a weak spot for November dusks, and for the feeling of expectation that hangs in the air. November, for all its inherent gloom, is full of promises. It is, surprisingly, the point for me to make a fresh new start.

9:02am: Butterfly
Once upon a time, there was a butterfly - a bright, flighty creature - who skipped and fluttered her colorful wings, and sucked sweet nectar from the meadow flowers. Her life was uncomplicated and dull. And although this particular butterfly, for all her bright beauty was not particularly bright in her head, she, too, began to feel dissatisfied, like creatures of higher intelligence tend to be. She began to look around and notice things: how unequal everything was, how everyone was going about their business without taking notice of her. She began to feel slighted and misunderstood. Wistfully, she'd look at the larks high in the summer sky who seemed to fly so freely, so majestically, and who sang so beautifully; for the larks the butterfly was their prey. And although she hated (and feared) them for that, she also admired them - the complexity of her feelings was too huge for her little head to absorb. But she was too wrapped into herself, and too trapped within her own image of herself, to ever aspire to be one of them; she did not believe it to be possible to wake up one day and be one of the larks... And she wasn't even sure she'd enjoy being one of them.

She continued this soul-searching (and the soul of a dissatified butterfly can sometimes be quite a mirky place). Then, in a sudden flash, she remembered how she used to be a caterpillar, snug in her own safe cocoon, spending all her time dreaming about the days when she would be a beautiful butterfly... Ah, if only she could relive those happy care-free days of sweet slumber and even sweeter hopes! If she could once again become a caterpillar, wrap herself in her aspirations, then when the time came she'd surely be a much better, much wiser butterfly, who'd enjoy being a butterfly so much more.

So, thus determined, the butterfly set off immediately to find something with which to craft her new cocoon. She looked high and low all through the meadow. She was very busy. And when other butterflies (who, by the way, were quite content to be what they were) questioned her frenzy of activity, she just shrugged her shoulders and put on the air of mystery and expectation, so they were duly intrigued, and even envious of her secretive plans. Finally her search yielded results: she had found some exquisite silvery thread that was strung between the stalks of flowers. It did not seem to belong to anyone, but the way it shimmered in the sun was quite beautiful. The butterfly thought the thread was gorgeous and would rather become her rosy complexion. Right away she imagined herself wrapped in that shimmering thread, glowing and warm, relaxing somewhere in a secluded, private spot, contemplating all sorts of important things and preparing for her new life as a new sort of butterfly, much improved... The image gave her immense pleasure. She thought she'd look interesting and romantic, and when the day came, she'd emerge out of her pampered hiding and impress the meadow folk with her quiet wisdom and her serene beauty...

Anxious to start her new life, the butterfly began to unravel the thread and wrap it around herself. It appeared a bit sticky, but it lay over her body in even, smooth, silvery coils. Her colorful wings got crushed beneath the sticky layers of that wrap but she paid no heed, so intent was she on the hope of the new beginning. As she looked down upon herself and saw once again how the silvery thread shimmered and radiated, she was very pleased indeed.

After her work was finished, the butterfly closed her eyes and sighed deeply. Ah, what a clever idea this was, she thought to herself. And then her thoughts drifted away as she fell asleep. Poor ignorant thing! She did not know that the silvery thread she had used to make her beautiful new cocoon belonged to a spider who even now was tracing her whereabouts by following the unraveled web. She also did not know that a sharp-eyed lark had spotted her - all shimmering and silvery - against the green of the meadow grass and began to make its descent in order to see for itself whether that strange bulky shape was indeed something edible. But I am not saying that either the spider or the bird were to be the end of this butterfly. She could simply suffocate or die of hunger, too, unable to disentangle herself from her self-created trap. Either way, she got what she deserved.

The moral of the story about this poor butterfly, an obvious victim of a mid-life crisis, is...well, I haven't come up with it yet. But, there is something I would like to say: to enjoy life more you simply needs to find someone who covets what you have. It works! Short-term, but it does.

8:35am: Balancing
I take one step at a time, put one foot in front of the other. Carefully. Deliberately. My thoughts fall in sync with my steps and soon it appears as though these thoughts mold onto each other and form a very narrow path - a balancing beam - that stretches before me, and each slow hesitant step allows me to examine them - one thought at a time, in an orderly, deliberate fashion. Then move to the next one. And the next. Thus I walk. I balance as best I can on this narrow path built of my own unrealiable thoughts that spans the gap between here and nowhere. Nothing is around me, and I can't see ahead for I must look directly down, at my feet - making these delicate hesitant steps - so as not to miss the only solid surface that is at my disposal. I stretch my arms, like a bird. But this bird has no grace with which to fly. I do not know what open air feels: whether it feels like nothing at all, like sheer and hopeless emptiness that lets one fall freely and beautifully, always down. Or, if air has texture and strength, like supple waves that bounce a falling body and cushion the fall, thus giving a chance for the wings - the arms - to do what they must, to pull the falling body up and into the groove of the air waves. I take one step at a time and feel the temptation to close my eyes, to let these steps fall on their own, to relinquish control and give into the seduction of the emptiness all around me. For a while, the instinct of self-preservation will guide my steps. For a while I will be able to follow the rythm blindly, and then, a miscalculated step will kick me off balance and I will have my answer: what open air feels like and whether or not I can fly...

11:42am: Mondays
Mondays suck. I switch gears once again and they do not shift smoothly: there is much grinding and unhealthy squeaking in the mechanism that helps me run. I need an oil change. I need a fucking vacation! Wait a minute: I just had one... Damn!

7:52am: And so this is the state of Aloha
Palms. Ocean. Tanned, oiled, toned bodies. Men in Speedos. Women in bikinis. Children sometimes naked (you can tell right away they've travelled from afar for no American parent would allow their toddler naked on a public beach.) Shave ice. Crowds of tourists. Hot dogs!! We are in the US of A after all. Eleanor thinks this is HER beach and HER pools. She was home sick the other night but I suggested she write a letter to Daddy, and after that was accomplished and decorated with Sponge Bob stickers the homesickness lifted away. My being in Hawaii essentially translates into not giving a damn... 4 more days of that and then...Chicago awaits, awash in fog, rain and business as usual.

9:42am: Random nonsense
If Hawaii is a state of mind, I am currently in Alaska...

9:41am: According to Ellie...
We wear clothes to keep our nipples safe and warm.

9:28pm: Random wisdom
Happiness is a transitional stage between unhappiness and indifference.

2:44pm: Midnight in Moscow
"Moonlight and vodka take me away.
Midnight in Moscow is lunchtime in LA..."

The words of the silly 80's hit keep rolling through my head as I give up on falling asleep at two in the morning in the apartment that had seen me as a newborn being brought home from the hospital, red-faced and scrawny, tightly swaddled against the late November chill, and later on as a round-faced toddler struggling to maintain precarious balance on two chubby unstable legs. Here, in this miniscule living space that somehow seemed adequate when inhabited by a family of four, and that now appears too small even though two of the original four are no longer here, my family gathered for suppers and hearty Sunday breakfasts of blinis or fried eggs. Here we laughed together and watched, transfixed, figure skating championships and football matches, often with neighbors who joined our cozy and chatty circle for company. Here we cried, unconsolable, when the phone rang one cool September morning, almost 30 years ago, to inform us in a very indifferent disembodied voice that my Grandma had passed away. Here I dreamed. Here I defied my parents for the first time in the name of love. Here I threatened suicide. Here I despaired because I could not make him (whoever he was at the time) love me. Here I wrote my first clumsy poems when I was supposed to be doing my homework, or doodled mindlessly on the back pages of my school notebooks. Here I was punished and cuddled, scolded and always loved. In this very room where I now lay sleepless but strangely at peace beside my little daughter who is snoring contentedly, I saw my father alive for the last time, not knowing it. His eyes, so much like my own in color and in shape, were distant and fixed on something unreachable, something that brought an expression of gentle resigned sadness onto his face. And as I was rushing around the apartment, victim to the usual morning frenzy, getting ready for work, I said good-bye to him casually, carelessly, taking his existence in that very moment for granted. I had not known he would be gone from us within hours. Even after I was told that he had died, the realization of the horrible and irreversible finality of death did not assualt me until an unknown man drove my dad’s car home that evening and parked it in its usual spot outside our windows. And there it stood – useless, pathetic, somehow morbid and terrifying in its empty uselessness – for weeks, a constant reminder to me that I was now a fatherless child, bereft.

I do not live in this apartment any longer. My home is far away. It is not large but it is comfortable for my family. It is light and airy, sparsely furnished, surrounded by my unskilled attempts at a flower garden. It is very different from the place I grew up in. Still, every time I come back to Moscow, every time I set foot in this tiny first-floor apartment that in its glory never had a locked door so that neighbors and friends could always come in as they pleased and have a seat at our family table, or in an arm chair, I feel a part of me restored, brought back to the surface. It is something raw and painfully vulnerable, yet precious to me, that I successfully hide deep inside my soul the minute the plane, west-bound, leaves the tarmac. Like contraband, I bring that pulsating vulnerability back to the States and stow it away until next time my soul is bared again, its protective gloss of feigned indifference stripped away by Moscow’s intimate reality.

The walls speak to me. They whisper softly. If I could peel away the layers of the various wallpapers covering them, I could retell my family’s life. There once was green wallpaper on the hallway walls that my brother claimed I “blended with” – so pale and scrawny I was as a pre-teen. Here we used to fight our battles, he and I; battles that were doomed from the onset, for how could an eight-year-old timid girl ever stand a chance against a robust and athletic fifteen-year-old lad. I see him vividly now, twenty years old, my mom’s golden boy, her first-born, her pride and joy, sitting at the kitchen table with a gigantic mug of tea and an enormous stack of sandwiches. An open book before him. The sandwiches disappearing in a very methodic way. He's not looking at me. He is engrossed in his book, in his infinitely more illustrous life, hurrying to live up its brutally limited expanse.

Gone. Everything is gone now, never to be relived or replicated again. Different wallpaper is covering the walls. Another man had sat in my father's place at the dinner table and tinkered afternoons away in the garage built by my Grandfather. Countless dogs called this domain their own, and their faint ghostly barking could still be heard among the whispers. Different times have come, different people now constitute my family. My American child is playing with my old toys, sitting in the corner of the sofa where my father used to spend his days and where I would often snuggle up to him to sit quietly beside him, silent both us, for we did not need to say much; our souls were too alike to need words. If only he could see his little granddaughter now, language barrier or not, theirs would have been love from the first sight, fierce and instant. I see the room from his perspective, how he had seen it day after day. I look at the front door and wait for it to open. I can almost imagine the expression on my brother’s face, that of sheer amusement, with a sideway grin, a slight crinkle to his eyes, a cocked eyebrow, a joke already forming behind his lips; his coolly sardonic, self-depreciating sense of humor making it seem like nothing was out of place, nothing extraordinary was happening. But the door is locked now, always. The locks and keys are now protecting the one precious soul living within - my mom, the keeper of my past, the custodian of what had once been.

Moscow is restless even at this hour. The night is never completely dark. The silvery twilight lingers and then dissolves into the early glow of dawn. There is no moonlight and no vodka to chase away the long hours of the sleepless night. Just memories…

8:54am: Записки баталиста
ЗАПИСКИ БАТАЛИСТА

От автора (Гарик Сукачев)
Я долго думал, стоит ли опубликовывать эти рассказы. С одной стороны, прошло уже несколько лет. С другой - читатель увидит в них элементы подражания известным писателям прошлого. Но все-таки я решился. Потому что с этими рассказами, а, точнее, со временем их написания у меня связаны теплые и уже, отчасти, ностальгические чувства...
В 1986 году в силу определенных обстоятельств я около полугода жил в семье моих друзей в Кунцеве. Семья состояла из Олега Сальхова, его очаровательной жены Ираиды и не менее очаровательной тещи Тамары Петровны. Еще в доме присутствовала собака под романтическим именем Гнида. Мы были молоды и не обеспечены, и если случались деньги, то они тут же превращались в еду и сигареты.Но так как у меня деньги случались реже всех, то меня просто кормили, что, впрочем, никого не тяготило и меня в том числе.
Тогда мы зачитывались Хармсом и Зощенко. Хармс был только в "Самиздате", поэтому читать его было вдвойне интересно. И вот не помню когда, в какой день, я начал писать биографию гибели Славного Гвардейского Полка. Я набросал сначала пару рассказов и прочел их вечером на кухне, за сигаретой и чашкой чая под всеобщее одобрение. Так как мои литературные испражнения были приняты с большой теплотой, я обнаглел и начал писать рассказы поточным методом. Так случился цикл с большим количеством персонажей, от нижних чинов Русской армии до Императора. Олег Сальхов придумал для него название: "Записки баталиста".

...И вот теперь я держу в руках листки, залитые кофе и чаем, с этими рассказами и вспоминаю то славное время, тех милых и горячо любимых мною людей, которые в течение полугода были моей семьей и останутся в моем сердце на всю жизнь. Этот цикл я посвящаю им.

1. Славный гвардейский полк
Рядовой Мамонов доводил рядового Бизонова. Рядовой Бизонов застрелил Мамонова в спину, когда полк пошел в атаку.
Это видел рядовой Газонов - и рядовой Бизонов застрелил рядового Газонова в целях конспирации. Это видел рядовой Патронов. Он заколол штыком Бизонова, потому что Газонов был другом Патронова. Рядового Патронова уничтожил рядовой Наклонов, так как Бизонов приходился кумом Наклонову. Рядового Наклонова убрал взводный старшина Анахрененко в назидательных целях. Это видел поручик Фильдеперсман. Он пустил в расход взводного старшину Анахрененко за издевательство над младшим чином. Поручика Фильдеперсмана кончил капитан Иванов. Он не уважал Фильдеперсмана за антисемитизм. Капитана Иванова расстрелял генерал Фон-Сичкин за потерю офицерской чести. В генерала Фон-Сичкина попала шальная пуля, и он скончался от ран.
Так погиб Славный Гвардейский Полк.

2. Загадка природы
Полкового врача Вумного вызвали в лазарет. На операционном столе лежал легкораненый гвардии рядовой Патронов. Когда Вумный внимательно обследовал солдата, он обнаружил, что у рекрута нет одной ноги (левой) и одной руки (правой), а в груди зияет огромная дыра от прямого попадания осколочного снаряда.
Вумный пощупал у больного пульс и сказал: "Больной скоропостижно скончался".
- А от чего он помер? - спросила любопытная сестра милосердия.
Опытный эскулап поднял палец и сказал:
- Загадка природы!

3. Саперы
Саперы Кузин и Кукурузин пошли разминировать минное поле. Случайно они забрели на огород зажиточного крестьянина Макара.
Макара очень огорчил их приход. Он взял двустволку и принялся палить по незванным гостям картечью.
- Ой, мама! - промычал Кузин и упал замертво.
- Сапер ошибается только один раз, - обобщил Кукурузин и рухнул рядом.
Слава Павшим Героям!

4. Язык
Газонов и Патронов пошли в разведку за "языком". Вскоре они поймали толстого и смирного германца и притащили его в штал. Главнокомандующий генерал Фон-Сичкин сердечно обнял и троекратно по-русски расцеловал "языка". Потом бесстрашный рубака достал носовой платок, утер навернувшуюся слезу и растроганно сказал: "В нашем полку прибыло!".

5. ***
Полковой повар Малохольнов варил суп. В супе не было ничего, кроме воды, соли и двух-трех листочков конского щавеля. Когда суп закипел, на запах соли стали слетаться мухи и другие козявки. Они стали падать в котел. К Малохольному подошел кавалер трех Георгиев рядовой Кукурузин и спросил:
- С чем суп?
Малохольнов посмотрел в котел и весело доложил:
- С мясом!

6. Аэроплан
В Славный Гвардейский Полк прислали аэроплан. Все очень обрадовались.
Главнокомандующий Фон-Сичкин сказал "Теперь у нас есть аэроплан, и мы будем громить врага!" Полк пошел в атаку.
Через несколько минут аэроплан был сбит германцем. Все обиделись.
Генерал Фон-Сичкин сказал: "Теперь у нас нет аэроплана, и мы не можем громить врага".
Полк отступил на заранее подготовленные позиции.
Какой идиот станет наступать без авиации?

7. Остряк
Офицеры очень любили показывать аэроплан дамам. Дамы обычно спрашивали:
- Неужели это аэроплан?
- Аэроплан для милых дам! - каламбурил Фильдеперсман. Он был очень остроумен.

8. Конь
Генерал Фон-Сичкин сидел на коне. К нему приблизился Император.
- Это - лошадь? - спросил Император.
- Никак нет, Ваше Величество, Конь! - не моргнув глазом сказал генерал.
- Конь-огонь! - констатировал Император и произвел генерала в фельдмаршалы.
Армии нужны честные главнокомандующие!

9. Шахматы
...Фельдмаршал Фон-Сичкин играл в шахматы с Императором.
- Мы - конем! - сказал фельдмаршал.
- А мы - слоном! - произнес Император.
- А мы - шахом! - сказал фельдмаршал и поднял фигуру.
- А мы - матом! - произнес Император и грязно выругался.

10. Рыбалка
Капитан Иванов ловил рыбу. К нему подошел поручик Фильдеперсман.
- Клюет? - спросил Фильдеперсман.
- Не клюет, - из принципа ответил Иванов.
Фильдеперсман отошел в сторону, достал из кармана бутылку водки и отпил.
Отдышавшись, он спросил:
- Клюет?
- Нет, - из принципа заметил Иванов. Фильдеперсман вновь отпил спиртного.
- Клюет?
- Не клюет! - отрезал из принципа Иванов.
К Иванову подошел генерал.
- Клюет? - спросил он.
- Клюет! - беспринципно ответил Иванов.
- Кто? - как бы в шутку спросил генерал.
- Фильдеперсман, - на полном серьезе констатировал Иванов.
Иванов любил софизмы.

11. Экспериментатор
Полковой врач Вумный был очень умным. Он увлекался экспериментальной медициной и любил делать всякие ампутации. Бывало, принесут ему больного, скажем, дизентерией вперемежку с бронхитом. Врач осмотрит его с ног до головы, а потом скажет: "Эге, батенька, что-то мне ваши руки (или ноги, или еще чего) не нравятся". И враз оттяпает ему руки, а то и с ногами вместе. И смотрит, чего будет. А больной лежит, конечно, смирно. Руками не машет, их у него нет. Дышать ему трудно, даже совсем невозможно от обиды. И по нужде сходить трудно. не на чем. А Вумный смотрит, как больной лежит бревном и говорит: "А если, к примеру, ему заместо ног руки прилепить, а заместо рук ноги, чего будет?". Хорошо, несут ему из спиртовой банки руки с ногами от другого ампутированного. Вумный враз присобачивает ему их на то место, откуда они произрастают, и говорит: "Вот я присобачиваю ему руки с ногами, и по законам природы они должны прирасти. И все должно на нем зажить, как на собаке, согласно моей философской доктрине".
А больной лежит, конечно, еще более смирный, чем был, и вроде как дыхание затаил. Час лежит, два, потом темнеть начал, а на третьи сутки совсем почернел, и дух из него пошел, прямо скажем, какой-то не такой...
Вумный посмотрел на него и сказал: "Да он никак помер. Я думал, он просто дыхание затаил, а он уже окочурился". Послушал он больного, понюхал и говорит: "Ну да, точно помер, подлец, не выдержал научного эксперимента. Слаб оказался.
Срезался! Дыхалки не хватило!"
Сплюнул Вумный, папироску закурил, задумался весь. А потом просветлел и назидательно произнес: "Наука требует жертв!"

8:35am: Двое
Когда-то, давным-давно, в тридевятом царстве, за семью горами, нас было двое. Он - золотоволосый мальчик с мечтой в глазах цвета рязанского неба. И я - маленькая девочка, серенький мышонок, младшая сестра, прятавшаяся в его тени. Мы были разные, он и я, непохожи друг на друга по внешности и характеру. Мы росли, как две ветки одного дерева, отдаляясь друг от друга по мере нашего взросления, отдаляясь от давшего нам жизнь ствола. Потом, одним апрельским утром, его не стало. В то утро, когда, просыпаясь и чувствуя весну всеми порами тела, до безумия хочется жить, он, безумный, выбрал иное, примкнув, со своей вечной сардонической ухмылкой, с недокуренной сигареткой, с недочитанной книжкой, с недопитой чашечкой черного кофе, к лучезарной когорте других теней - таких же как он, безумных, молодых и непобежденных, излюбленных капризными богами. Теперь нас уже не двое. Теперь я, младшая сестра, уже старше своего старшего брата, и там, где когда-то мы были присоединены к одному и тому же живому месту на стволе дерева, осталась навсегда кровоточащая рана потери.

МАЛЬЧИК. Его сын. Даниил. Данилка. Даня. Я помню тот день, в далеком апреле, когда мы впервые узнали о том, что он появится на свет. Я помню тот день в таком же далеком декабре, полный ожиданиями и надеждами, когда он родился. Помню тот день, когда я впервые увидела его, крошечного, пищащего. Было так странно чувствовать привязанность к этому ребенку, которого так недавно еще не было совсем. И вот он был и кровь заговорила на своем языке и связала нас всех тесно и навсегда, окинув еще одной петлей. Мой брат восхищенно брал в свои руки малюсенькие пальчики новорожденного сына и говорил мне и маме: "Смотрите, какие у него длинные и тонкие музыкальные пальцы!" Говорил так с гордостью отца, постигшего то, чего не могут понять, осознать другие, непосвященные. Потом, месяц спустя, я катала его, своего племянника, в коляске по Филевским улицам. Синяя коляска с Даней, туго запеленутым и закутанным от январской московской стужи, и я, девятнадцатилетняя, гордая, гордо притворяющаяся, что он мой.

Он рос без меня, этот Даня-Данилка, мальчишка на редко присылаемых фотографиях. Я знала его по рассказам. Я не знала его совсем, но тонко пела в артериях древнюю песню связующая нас кровь предков и из этой песни плавно и неизбежно вытекала тонкая струйка бессознательной любви.

И вот он теперь, девятнадцатилетний, долговязый, уверенный в своей звезде. В его глазах те же знакомые золотые отблески и та же ухмылка кривит его губы. Все повторяется, снова и снова и становится легко верить в незыблемую вечность, существующую помимо рассудка и помимо здравого смысла.

ДЕВОЧКА. Eleanor. Ellie. Norah. Необыкновенное создание, свалившееся неизвестно откуда. Как могла я, смертная, произвести на свет такое? Давно зажило рожавшее ее тело. Забыта физическая боль. Ее первые дни, недели, месяцы слились в одно, уже становящееся далеким воспоминание. Ангельские кудри. Капризный изгиб румяных губ. Ясный взгляд светлых глаз. В ней мое сердце - навсегда, насовсем. И вот я смотрю, как оно уходит от меня на крепких полных ножках, все вперед и вперед. Скоро, совсем скоро, не успеешь оглянуться, она вытянется в длинного, худого подростка. Выпрямятся кудри. Исчезнут ямочки на пухлых ручках. Она перестанет бегать ко мне с каждой болячкой, с каждой детской обидой. Появятся друзья. Появится любовь...

Настанет и день и останутся они - двое. Старший брат и младшая сестра. Как когда-то были и мы. Но не так. По-другому. Быть может они станут друзьями. Быть может они не будут друг друга видеть годами, но кровная связь сильнее времени и настойчивее любого расстояния. Ничто не кончается. Все начинается снова...

7:57am: Bonjour, Quebec!
We looked at each other, astonishment and dismay mirrored in our faces: married almost three years, and the last time we were away together (save for a few "stolen" weekend stays downtown Chicago) was, well, our Colorado honeymoon. Outrageous! Of course, there was Ellie and that small business of being pregnant with her, caring for her through her babyhood, hating to leave her behind, etc... Now, however, we were ready, our readiness spurred on by 50,000 United frequent flyer miles I somehow managed to accumulated in my account. They were burning a hole the size of a boarding pass in my virtual pocket. I craved distance, yet not so great as to overwhelm our limited time off. I needed a distinct departure, but crossing the Atlantic for pleasure, not for business, seemed like an irresponsible betrayal of our Ellie: a frivolous thing no parent should attempt unless prepared to pay for therapy sessions later. It was momentary inspiration, perhaps, that transcended from my racing mind through my right arm and hand to that other relevant appendix of our body known as "the computer mouse" and voila! out of my love affair with Google search the idea of Montréal and Québec was conceived. Many ingenious things are disarmingly simple and obvious, and so was this choice. It fit our needs so perfectly it made us doubt its credibility, still a perfect match such as this was worth investigating further. From that point on we were as if charmed by the very impending idea of our travel and began to see “signs” that further unfolded before us the beguiling prospects of the French Canada: a friend suddenly shared with me her memories of a past travel to both cities, a TV show featured a trendy restaurant in Montréal l that absolutely had to be visited, a co-worker brought to the office a magazine hailing Montréal as the most European city in North America. The straws continued to pile on the camel's back, and the camel was kicking up its rear, ready to journey north.

At this point, friends and strangers, let us all say a silent thanksgiving prayer to the goodness of the Internet and those who take time to populate the travel blogs! Our entire trip was booked electronically; the choices we made were affirmed by fellow bloggers leaving their words of wisdom in the wide blue yonder. I must say, our choices were all around excellent! C’est fantastique! And while the Quebecois dust is still clinging freshly to the soles of my Yankee shoes, let me share with you our humble but enjoyable experience.

To preface, our objectives for this trip were (please note the priority order, although my husband, who is not co-authoring this, may disagree):
1. To catch up on sleep. Those of you who have kids under the age of 10 would appreciate the ever evading luxury of waking up when your body and mind are ready to deal with the world, not when Junior yells to you at six in the morning on a perfectly lovely Sunday, as the cool spring breeze caresses your face, and your body stretches languorously under a down blanket, “Wake up, lazy bones!” Spell broken, you march half-blindly, with the labored gait of an invalid, to your child’s room to pick the precious bundle that’s not yet old enough to speak in complete sentences out of bed, change her diaper, jump-start the day…
2. To eat fabulous food. (In my husband’s opinion, why else does one travel?)
3. To have some couple time (wink, wink). Remember what if felt like when you were dating? When you could throw yourselves into each other’s arms regardless of the time of day, without constantly listening for Junior’s footsteps lest the apple of your eye finds you in a compromising position and asks in imperfect toddler English: “Mommy, Dada, are doing?”
4. To see and experience things we have not yet seen or experienced. Together!

I hope this modest list does not offend avid museum-goers or architectural aficionados, who would, perhaps, cringe at the thought of wasting the time and opportunity on such basic needs. To them, every minute of the day should be packed with sightseeing and admiration of artifacts and learning and historical tours. Yes, yes, and hats off to you for following your ambitions. To us, however, this trip meant the proverbial R&R, but we wanted to R&R in style, with the French accent, if you please…

And thus we arrived in Montréal in the morning of Friday, May 5th. A quiet airport greeted us, almost deserted it seemed after the bubbling bustle of Chicago’s O’Hare. Getting through passport control was a breeze, although those of you residing State-side who still consider that travel to Canada is no more than crossing a state line between Illinois and Iowa, should think about obtaining a passport: you will need one come January 1, 2007!

Just a short taxi ride from the Trudeau airport (about 15 minutes) delivered us to the front steps of Hotel Nelligan at 106, rue Saint-Paul (www.hotelnelligan.com). Don’t be discourage by the unassuming façade of the old building without a grand canopied entrance hovering over a circular drive, for inside you will discover a nest of luxury where North American generosity meets European style. The room was large enough to accommodate a sumptuous king-size bed with luxurious down comforter and pillows and still leave the space to move around without knocking down furniture or bumping into your partner. The bathroom was in the back of the room (not right at the entrance as it is typically in most hotels), and that made it feel more private, more like home. Let me now rave about the size of the bath tub for it was enormous and enormously comfortable: a real soaking tub to relax and rejuvenate. It called for some Provençal soaps and bath oils (sold in a smart little shop further down rue Saint-Paul). The exposed brick wall added unexpected grace to this elegant abode. Artwork was tastefully understated. The only tiny little minus was that our room overlooked the hotel’s narrow atrium and therefore received no day light or fresh air. Be mindful of that if you need to request specific accommodations. Hotel staff was polite, efficient and polished without being too bubbly in the worst cheerleading fashion. Their lightly accented English was charming, their French – disarmingly attractive. In my professional life, I’ve stayed in some top hotel properties in the United States and beyond, and this little gem proved to be not inferior to some of the best of them. Its superior location in Vieux Montréal (just steps away from Notre Dame and a short walking distance from place Jacques-Cartier) adds more stars to its overall rating. A truly inspired choice!

That morning we tried to get our bearings in Vieux Montréal, as well as some nourishment for our rumbling tummies (remember Priority No. 2). Our somewhat sporadic walk yielded a fortunate find in the form of cozy little café nestled in the curve of rue Saint-Paul, not quite as far as where it crosses with rue McGill. The place was bustling with activity as lunch hour was rapidly approaching. Inside, the tiny space was adorned with hanging hams, roosters, garlands of flowers, baskets of freshly baked baguettes. One could eat in or take out. We opted to stay and were served a roast-beef sandwich for Tim and a smoked salmon one for me. Everything was fresh, tasty, wonderfully presented. Note again to those of you traveling from south of the border: RELAX! Leave your frenetic pace behind, along with expectations that will not be satisfied. Expect service that will be courteous, efficient, but “slow” by US standards. Look at it this way: no one is trying to rush you out, so chill and enjoy your superb meal, and maybe – what the heck! – even have an easy conversation with your traveling partner. How’s that for a concept? If you need assistance in the relaxation part, order Belle Guelle, local beer that is delicious even to a non-beer-drinker such as moi. It’s light, with just a hint of sweetness. Très bien!

A restorative nap that day felt almost decadent (refer to Priority No. 1, with a bit of Priority No. 3 thrown in for a good measure). As Tim went to expend his surplus energy at the hotel’s exercise room, I ventured out for an afternoon walk around town as well as to find some Claritin (my allergies were unexpectedly active so far north). The overall feel on the streets of Vieux Montréal was that of an old European town as the obligatory glass-and-steel modern buildings of downtown clustered off to the side and out of view. Pedestrian steps resonated sweetly on narrow cobblestone streets. The unfolding perspectives revealed a town seeped in history, indeed fermented in it as the famous confit de canard served virtually in every restaurant here. A sense of admiration for the Quebecois asserted itself in my mind, a respect for their stoic ability to carve a niche for themselves – and their future generations – in the surrounding predominantly English-speaking world of our part of the North American continent. Their stubborn allegiance to their culture, language, traditions, indeed the entire way of living inspired appreciation. Is it the powerful mix of frontier survival skills and the French indignation at all things non-French that helps this unique wedge of Canadian soil persevere in its mission to be different? Whatever may be the case, the Europhile in me stood hatless and deferential before the Euro-themed theme park known as Québec. Maybe I just like to be called madame (en français) as opposed to madam, or even worse – m’am… Does that make me a terrible snob?

The Provençal soap shop was a bit draining for my checkbook: $80 dollars (US) for a vial of lavender essential oil, sandalwood bubble bath, and three cakes of soap. Oh well, but they smell so good in my linen closet!

Claritin was obtained in a corner convenience shop (dépanneur), along with some dark chocolate (amen!) and a couple of bottles of Belle Guelle for my calorie-burning hubby.

Our dinner choice that evening was the much acclaimed Au Pied de Cochon (www.restaurantaupieddecochon.ca) in 536, rue Duluth. We took a taxi to get there, and the ride revealed nothing exceptionally interesting once we trundled out of the cobble stones of Vieux Montréal and into some more contemporary areas of the city. Rue Duluth, once we reached it, looked to me like a more civilized (and, perhaps, more sober) version of Chicago’s own Rush Street, with restaurants and boutiques lining both sides. Au Pied presented itself as a bright, overpopulated, noisy and stuffy place – not at all what we imagined our first dinner choice would be on this romantic-slash-gourmet pilgrimage. Our interest in the “joint” was originally sparked by a show we frequently watch on the Travel Channel that is hosted by Anthony Bourdain (a hip “bad boy” NYC restaurateur and globe trotter with an obsessive abhorrence for ABBA). The recent show, focused entirely on Montréal, featured Au Pied and hailed it as a Mecca for foie gras lovers: here, patrons are free to order foie gras crêpes, foie gras steak frites, and everything else foie gras that no healthy person would normally associate with foie gras. Perverse, surely, but we only wanted to perch ourselves at the same bar where Tony Bourdain feasted so very recently on – what else? – foie gras and confit de canard, crunching frites, sipping Belle Guelle or Molson Export. However, it was not to be. Our reservations, made from Chicago, across the miles and the language barrier, seemed non-existent. And the whole atmosphere evoked associations with a corner Quizno’s store rather than a bona fide restaurant so that fighting for a table suddenly became hardly worth the effort. We left in disappointment, two pouty-lipped Americans abroad, and drifted next door to Vertige (cuisine de caractère), in 540, rue Duluth (tel. 514-842-4443). An understatedly elegant place, peaceful after the overexposed hyper-noisiness of its more famous neighbor. Having learned of our plight, the hostess made extra efforts to make us feel welcome. We were served complimentary flirtinis (а frothy and delicious concoction of vodka, triple sec, raspberry, cranberry and pineapple the color of smoked salmon – which is precisely the color my cheeks turned after I drank it). Dinner was superb, as was the wine, as was the background music – leaping effortlessly and without prejudice from a French chanson, to some Portuguese crooning, to the rhythmic percussions of a Middle Eastern melody.

We elected to walk back to the hotel. Crazy, drunken fools! We estimated the walk was around 3 miles, and it took us through some wild areas of Montréal, so unlike the serene and dignified Old Town. But, oh well, every city in the world has its unsavory parts.

The morning of the next day (Saturday) was misty, with a promise of the rain close by. We spent the morning walking the streets, visiting Notre Dame, taking pictures. Lots of them!!

For dinner we decided to stay close by and were attracted by Modavie (1, rue Saint Paul, tel 514-287-9582) that advertised live jazz. Unfortunately, all tables on the second level (where the musicians played) were already booked for the night and the restaurant did not allow drifters like us to just come in for the music. So, one flirtini and a couple of Molson Exports later, we crossed Saint Paul to Le Steak Frites de Saint Paul, a brand new establishment with license pending. The name pretty much explains the restaurant’s specialty. Again, we were much impressed with the clipped, elegant manner of the waiting staff (anyone who addresses me as Bon soir, madame automatically scores highly in my book) and the simple tastefulness of the food. As for the b.y.o.b., that was easily obtained at the dépanneur next door.

Early morning of Sunday, the 7th of May, saw us packing for the second part of our voyage – Québec. We made a very short transfer from the hotel to the rail station, checked our luggage and boarded the train. The train idea came from a trade show I attended in late March in Chicago, where I chanced to run into a representative from the Québec bureau of tourism. I am glad we opted for a train ride rather than renting a car as there is not much use for the car in either Montréal or Québec unless one intends to venture outside of the city limits. VIA Rail was efficient, comfortable and entirely trouble free. In the end, it probably also saved us some money.

Our base camp in Québec was Auberge Saint-Antoine (www.saint-antoine.come) nestled in the lower part of the Old Town which is where we headed from the train station. The morning of our arrival was sunny, breezy and cool; the sky – postcard-quality azure blue. The fairy tale town rose before us in steep terraces, like a picture in a pop-up book, unreal almost in the North American context. The quality of air – crispy, fresh from the close proximity of the great water – reminded me of my beloved Stockholm.

Saint-Antoine greeted us with the funky atmosphere of a mountain chalet updated to the latest standards of modern hospitality. The most interesting feature of the hotel built atop archeological excavation sites is that every little broken fragment of a dish or a vase found on site has been carefully preserved and is proudly displayed in the numerous lighted display cases built into the hotel wall. Every guest room is identified by such an artifact. The room, although not as spacious as at the Nelligan, was filled with light and contained every commodity necessary for a comfortable stay. An unexpected luxury was the heated floor in the bathroom that immediately made a life-long fan out of me. The line of featured bath products, we live like this ®, deserves additional praise (www.pacificdirect.co.uk) as I became instantly addicted to its aroma of ginseng and macadamia. The hotel’s location at the base of the cliff makes it a perfect starting point for your walks up to Château Frontenac through the winding, climbing streets of Old Québec.

Discovering Québec was a treat as every twist and turn in our path revealed yet another quaint courtyard or exquisitely painted building, a small but perfectly proportioned church, a battlement, an old gate. The cool but sunny day was perfect for walking as, trust me, negotiating the steep climbs would make you break a sweat. A couple of street musicians, French speech all around, excellent food and a prospect of yet another day in this enchanted place made us mellow and heedless of time.

The food in Québec is, perhaps, a bit too exotic for an average visitor. Although you can certainly obtain fish and steak and conventional poultry, their specialties center around game: caribou, stag, buffalo, quail, pheasant. If you feel adventurous to try, be prepared to be rewarded with rich flavors of dishes you most likely won’t have at home.

L’Échaudé was our harbor for that night’s dinner (www.echaude.com), a quiet, elegant place with an upscale feel to it. People-watching is one of my favorite occupations. The table not far from us contained a young family with a girl who appeared to my trained eye to be about one, and a couple of their friends. At first I was impressed how well-behaved the little girl was: she sat calmly in her high chair clanking some toys, chatting, smiling. I couldn’t help but compare this serene child with a few forays into dining out that we have made with Eleanor, who doesn’t last in her high chair more than 10 minutes and then wants to come down and explore. My free-spirited child does not like being constrained in any way, or having her perspectives limited by convention. She would walk up to patrons, strike a conversation, peer out of windows. After a few necessary outings we stopped trying. Perhaps some day…

However, this little girl got tired of being “good” fairly soon also. With jealousy I watched her unruffled mother seamlessly pass on the care of the child to the father who walked with the little girl around the restaurant while the others at his table enjoyed their dinner. No one seemed agitated or stressed-out as I would surely be. As the mother unhurriedly finished her dinner, they switched and the dad now took his place at the table. I envied their calmness, their acceptance. Something I certainly need to learn. The mother’s pace never quickened even as the child became cranky. She just as calmly bundled the little girl up into her Peg-Perego that was kept tableside, all the while continuing to talk with her friends. The child’s cries soon subsided and she seemed to be asleep even before they exited the restaurant. Where, or where does one find this remarkable tranquility? What did this French Canadian mother possess that I did not have in me? Should I be drinking more wine?...

The following day, our last one in Québec, was spent climbing the steep terraces of the Old Town. We sat on the green, near the battlements, awed by the vistas that unrolled suddenly before our eyes as the tin roofs of the town stepped quietly aside: the magnificent stronghold of Château Frontenac with its numerous flags flying in the wind dominated the view, presided over the city, beneath it opened the widening estuary of the Saint-Lawrence River, and beyond – gently rolling hills, more tin roofs and spikes of many church steeples. The departure here from all things shiny, new and North American was ever so evident.

Some day, I thought, we would come back, with Eleanor a long-legged, pig-tailed, gawky seven-year-old. She would be thrilled to see the fairy tale castles, and I would rather she sees these timeless streets than the plastic primary-colored version presented by Disney World.

We shopped, we ate ice cream in a little courtyard while listening to a street musician, we mingled with the crowd roaming aimlessly through the narrow streets. We were part of this charming place for just little bit longer before the trains, planes and automobiles carried us back to the reality we had left behind.

We had afternoon drinks at Château Frontenac, perhaps in the same lounge where Churchill and Roosevelt smoked their cigars in 1944. The atmosphere there is clubby, flirtinis are entirely passable, but the best feature is the view of Saint Lawrence River. Our gourmet finale took place at Aux Anciens Canadiens (www.auxancienscanadiens.qc.ca), a charming restaurant housed in a building circa 1645! If you wish to experience the traditional Quebecois cousin, this is your place. As I opted for caribou ragout, Tim chose a trio of filets: stag, buffalo and caribou. Delicious! So was the dessert. So were the garlic toast slices that the waitress continued to bring to our table.

And so it came to an end, our much anticipated and much needed getaway. As the US dollar continued to plunge, it became perhaps a bit more expensive than we had originally anticipated but worth every copper penny. Québec now has firmly taken its well-deserved place on the list of my favorite cities, and I do have a strong feeling that I will see it again, in not such a distant future. I feel enriched having been able to visit it, knowing that this gem is entirely within reach, a negligibly short distance away, waiting – there is so much more to discover. Au revoir, Québec!

11:28am: Eleanor Rose
I have never written a complete story of my pregnancy with Ellie and of her birth. She is two years and two months now, and although the memories are still vivid in my mind, some minor details have begun to slip away. Before more and more things become obscure with time, here it goes...

Friday, June 13, 2003
She first appeared before my eyes as a double line on the home pregnancy test. I saw them develop and the surge of joy that came after still remains to be matched by anything else I have experienced. I was bursting with happiness.

I went to a Party Lite party at Alan and Bobbie's house. Little Matthew was toddling about and I looked at hime with different eyes. Next year at this time MY BABY will be in my arms. MY BABY!!!

Thoughts and doubts came later during that first sleepless night when I tossed and turned and was afraid to lie on my stomach lest I should somehow harm my baby. MY BABY!!! I was 34 and completely in awe of the fact that inside me a new life was budding. It was almost impossible to believe.


Saturday, June 14, 2003
I finally abandoned all hopes of sleep and took a shower. I felt elated, anxious, nervous, ecstatic - all at once. I still haven't told Tim.

I looked some information up on the Internet. Hello, BabyCenter, my new best friend for the next 9 months. It was easy to calculate that the baby was concieved most likely on May 25th. That made me 5 almost 5 weeks pregnant. In the short time I had, I found out some basic information about pregnancy. Holy cow, how unbelievably ignorant I had been! I knew the pictures showed something that even remotely did not yet resemble a human being, but in my mind I had inside me the tiniest and the most perfectly formed baby - something like a Thumbelina from Hans-Christian Andersson's fairy tale. It swam happily around doing flips, not a care in the world, while its mother was freaking out at the prospect of making the announcement to its father.

Later that day...
Tim took it in stride. He is a great guy and a softie.

Wednesday, June 18, 2003
We had agreed to not tell our parents and we both broke our promises on the same day. My Mom, Jane, and Tim Sr. were all thrilled and happy for us.

We had decided we would not make any "decisions" (wink-wink) until my first U/S is scheduled, and tonight Tim proposed and I accepted. It went something like this...

We were in bed, at his place, and he was fidgeting around. I asked him if I could rub his back or something, and he said "no". And then he asked me to be his wife. Every girl/woman dreams about these words but you can never know how you're actually going to feel until you do hear them. I loved him so much at that moment. I was so very, very happy. We called my mom right away, and she was absolutely ecstatic to hear the news. I did not go to work the following day, faking some excuse or other. Tim and I went out for breakfast and just hung out.

Between June 19 and July 7, 2003
This time was a bit of an emotional roller coaster for me. My main concern was that I DID NOT FEEL pregnant. I tried to search within myself for some symptoms of sickness or fatigue or food aversion, but alas, I felt very healthy and strong. I took a number of home pregnancy tests as though I was afraid they baby has somehow dissolved. In my mind, I had diagnosed myself with ectopic pregnancy and every other possible disorder. I would have given several years of my life for having the urge to throw up in the morning. I felt like a fake, an impostor.

I also found out that since I am O Neg I needed RhoGAM shots throughout the pregnancy. I got my first one on June 20th. I also had some spotting that scared the day light out of me, and Dr. Pfister's office sent me for some bloodwork. When I saw on the order sheet the words "Possible miscarriage", my heart sank. How little time it takes to become a mother! How amazing that so much love could be felt toward someone that I have not even seen or held in my arms. Yet I knew I wanted this baby more than anything in the world, and I would do anything in the world to make sure it was happy and healthy.

This pregnancy suddenly catapulted me from being a 30-something single gal to being a fiancee and a prospective mother. Enough to distract even the most focused mind, let alone my own easily wandering one. And so, when I went to NYC, for some worthless conference or other, with my boss, I sincerely doubt my participation was advantageous to any. The first evening there, I ran out to a CVS pharmacy across the street from the Westin and bought yet another pregnancy test, just to be sure the baby was still inside me.

Our first official ultrasound was on July 7th, right after Tim and I became godparents to Tim's sister's youngest daughter, Kate. I was a little disappointed because the baby on the black and white printouts we received was nothing more than a glowing bean. But it was my bean, and very, very precious.

The plans for the wedding kicked in. Needless to say, my heart was only half into this whole wedding affair. I had more fun shopping for maternity clothes (I did not yet need) than for my wedding dress.

Between July 7 and August 23
Nothing much happened. I continued to get chubbier and thicker around the waist, anxious to break into those maternity things I began to accumulate. I wanted to at least look pregnant since I still did not feel pregnant at all.

The search for the name began. We had no doubts whatsoever that we would name a girl Eleanor Rose. This is the name we came up with while Jenn was still expecting her No. 4. Since the name was never taken, and I had come up to start with, I felt it was simply meant for us to name our daughter that, should we have a daughter. With boys' names, however, we were having major problems. Among the runners up were: Declan, Owen, Nolan, with the middle name either Timothy or Michael.

We got married on August 23rd, on a "nice and beautiful day", as my Ellie would say now.

3:05pm: What thoughts do come
It is about 2 in the morning and I cannot sleep. I blame the cursed daytime savings thing that has gotten everything around my house out of wack. All clocks are showing different times and I'll be damned if I am going to run around the two stories trying to synchronize them. It is too late anyway. The storm outside is raving: nature's protest to having its elements messed with. I had to convince my two-year old that the thunder was "friendly" and meant no harm, so she would finally settle down and go to sleep. I wish I were able to convince myself for as the minutes drain away (old time or new, the minutes do not change their fluid transient quality), my ability to sleep flows with them and melts away into nothingness. The house creeks all around, as old bones do during the rainy season. The wind hurls against it yet another wave of angry water. For an instant I entertain myself with the illusion that our house does not sit on a modest quarter acre of suburban soil but is in fact perched atop a cliff somewhere in the Northwest or the Northeast, facing the fury of the ocean below it. I yearn for the ocean, for the untamed openness of it, for the way it always makes me feel young in spirit. Alas, if I had the ambition to slip from underneath the covers and tip-toe across the cool planks of wood floor toward the window, I would see orderly rows of red-brick dwellings, much like our own, on a land that is flat and divided into neat squares, like hop-skotch. But I don't get up, I wrap myself tighter into the blankets and turn over on the other side. As in a caleidoscope, my thoughts shift and make yet another pattern.

I start thinking about the people who lived here before us. I know nothing, almost nothing about them, and so I let my imagination fill in the blanks with absurdly wide and bold strokes. 1946, just after the war, and a demobilized soldier carries his young bride over the threshhold of a house that is as new and as fresh as their hopes. Claire. Her name was Claire, that much I remember from our neighbors' stories. They paint the walls, the settle in. They play house. On a sunny Saturday morning, Claire takes special pleasure in dusting their modest possessions, rearranging the crisp starched doilies on the sofa and the side tables. The house in awash in sunlight, its many windows are open to let in the sun and the fresh spring air. From the radio, a popular song is playing. Something very sentimental and full of joie de vivre, as all post-war things are. Claire is humming along, her thin hands gliding over the smooth surfaces, a smile illuminating her face. Claire is pregnant.

The child does not live. He dies a few days after he is born. Jimmy. They named him Jimmy, after his father. Claire sobs over the tiny coffin. The soldier, who saw death daily in its most gross twisted form, who himself killed many to survive, sobs too in an awkward heartbreaking way men do. This pain nothing could have prepared them for.

The little nursery with white eyelet curtains stands closed for many months, as is Claire's heart. Empty and closed, cradling inside it the little boy that was her son for just a few short days.

Over the years, there are other pregnancies, and they do not speak of them as though committing them to common words would somehow bring harm to the tiny creatures swimming inside Claire's spare body. She never carries another baby to full-term. Never again will her eager arms receive a newborn child and bring him to her full waiting breasts. And then, she can no longer conceive.

They grow silent and apart, the soldier and his wife. The house stands solid and confident around them, protecting them from the intruders, harboring within their silent pain. It knows how to keep secrets and its brick and mortar absorb their arguments, their accusations, their tears. Outwardly the house is silent and dignified. Inside, it is silent also much too often. Only the fourth stair from the top creaks as the soldier often creeps down into the kitchen in the middle of the night to take a sip of cheap bourbon. In the summer, he often sits on the back porch stairs and listens to the night sounds. He does not hear Claire's muted sobs upstairs.

Many years later, the little room that never became a nursery becomes Claire's sewing room, its busy cheerful chaos obliterates any memories Claire may have left of the baby boy named Jimmy. The other spare room is always ready for the favorite niece who loves to visit. The soldier, having gotten used to the warm embrace of a bottle, slowly crumbles: his spirit stronger than his body, his love for Claire as she used to be in stark contrast with his indifference toward Claire as she is now. They live together: two human beings sharing the same space, sharing meals in the kitchen to the busy chatter of the radio, sharing the bed upstairs, no longer sharing any dreams or hopes.

When the soldier finally passes, Claire bids him farewell and lowers the flag on the mast in the back yard. She turns back to the house and it hugs her into its folds. She moves the rocking chair that her husband bought for her when she was pregnant with Jimmy into the downstairs family room. She rocks herself to sleep often in it. The upstairs bedrooms grown cold and neglected.

It is the neighbor's boy, Joey, that Claire grows attached to. He is the only soul that is able to coax a smile out of her with his harmless pranks. She is stern with him but they both know it is only for a show.

The last years of her life are a peaceful slumber, and one day she does not wake up from it.

The house is sold and gutted and redone inside and out, but its dignified graceful quality has not been changed. It is alive once again with children's laughter, with hopes for the future, with love.

I can sleep now. Good night...