There are things difficult to talk and write aboutEditors letter
There are things difficult to talk and write about. As a classic told “These words are on the border of consciousness in the place where poetry lives and miracles are born”.
We can’t talk about our love. We are brought up like this: don’t talk about love, all is said about it. Prove it with deeds. And we set out on this journey if we are brave enough, not knowing what is awaiting us. Delusion that makes us feel dizzy. The altitude taking our breath away. The tailwind taking us away, the head wind knocking us over.
My first love happened when I was a child.
I remember us walking through the snowy streets of the Kazakhstan’s town: he is squeezing my hand, pulling me ahead, I almost run trying to keep pace, but I’m just six and I can’t keep up. I look at him, tall, blue eyed, with white frosted mustache, and he takes me to his arms and carries over the road. Reliable, kind father’s hands promised safety of all of the roads, including life paths. First chess tour, upbringing intellectual and first gun shooting in apiary upbringing the character. “Mamma-jamma monster, I will win again!” – promised his voice with guitar chords of Vysotsky’s song. He probably won because there’s not a single day when I don’t remember him though he smiles with his best in the world smile captured in marble.
My second love came when I was twenty.
Eighteen years ago. Love form the first sight. As I realized now the others don’t exist. Falling apart. Difficulties of communication. Bright flashes of meetings. At times far away and almost other people’s, but nevertheless close and eternally relative. Fate takes unbelievable cracks sometimes, tying knots or breaking them. But now it seems to be crystal clear: we are together and it goes same way without saying as we breathe to live. We were and we’re all the faces of love: he’s my friend, he’s my comrade, my father and son, passionate lover and beloved husband. But yet I remember the words of my friends and close people: “he’s not yours”, “you won’t be together”, “he doesn’t love you”, “you’ve got no future”. And it was only me by that time who could know and believe that we are fate, we are a special gift: a gift of love and happiness.
We were not taught to speak of love. But anyone of us says “I love you” at least once in a lifetime. And if it’s not just words then the divine knot is tied and time has no hold on it, neither life’s paths do. Moments of love keep us closer to eternity but yet don’t give us an exact formula of what love is. Maybe it’s the thick snow falling all night long or winter creeks with splashing trout. Or it is laughter, singing, smell of the old resin before the dawn when the candles are burning down and stars stick to the windows to shine in your eyes. Who knows? Maybe it’s men’s tears about something that the heart once waited for: tenderness, caressing, incoherent whisper among the forest nights. Maybe it’s returning to childhood. Who knows?” But maybe we even don’t have to know. Just to feel and be happy because you love and therefore you live.