Мама на даче, ключ на столе, завтрак можно...

Mom is in the country, the key is on the table, you can skip breakfast. Vacation is coming, eight years, in August it will be nine. In August nine, seven o'clock, the sky is light and flat, the sun has left faded streaks in my hair. Clamp the sleepy piece in the palm of your hand and let it slip through your fingers. Vitka from the tenth floor again calls for a swim. We must hurry with all our legs and eyes - they will suddenly run away, leave. Vitka finished the fourth grade - that is, almost the old one. Shorts with a T-shirt - a simple outfit, take an apple for an afternoon snack. Vitka will teach me to dive, he promised, I remember. The road to the river is well-trodden, burned out and familiar. Dusty feet are like mom's gloves. Today we have such a heat - the leaves are just like rags. Maybe we'll play later, I'll ask you to hide and seek. Vitka is a kind, one to one boy from Jules Verne. I'll ask you to drive me, they'll probably let me. The evening will begin, it must get dark. Day until the end of the week. I turn to the wall. One hundred, ninety nine.


Mom in the country. Bicycle. Take the exam tomorrow. The sun licks the abstract with gentle eyes. To meet the morning and sit all night, wait for the onset of summer. In August I will already be a student, now - neither this nor that. Semi-hard bread and cheese from a knife, breakfast from sleep is not tasty. Vitka from the tenth floor is now in his third year. He knows all the smart professors, writes programs in the firm. Hood, ironic and black-browed, straight out of the movie. She writes notes to my sister, gives flowers on paycheck, only now I swim faster and compose better. It's just that my little sister has a bright face, I'm heavier and angrier, we climb onto the porch and launch a kite. They seem to be leaving at night, I take them to the train. The river rustles, rustles at the feet, now it is waist-deep. Seventy eight, seventy seven, crying with my back to the train. Let them hide, well, all of them, I will not look for them.


Mom in the country. The head is buzzing. Sleepy inaction. The cat settled on the chest, the sun on the blanket. Cups, palms and sweaters, coffee, pray, boil. Did anyone see me yesterday? Better not tell. Let it be a big secret of a little debauchery, everyone was drunk, weightless, warmed by the warm breath of his brother, his throat was hoarse from chatter, ashes flew from the balcony, everyone was with each other - and all alone, alive and rebellious. If we chip in one ruble, breakfast will come to our house, Lord, how I love you all, a rainbow in the palms. Street in sunny lace, Vitka, wash the plates. You can wallow and come alive. You can go to the river. I will catch you and conquer you, I will force you to get a haircut, to shave. Nose in broken bark. Thirty-four, thirty ...


Mom in the photo. Keys in the lock. Eight hours before summer. The sun is on the walls, on the backpack, in old sandals. Sleepy paws through the square, and nowhere to go. Vitka in America. I am in Moscow. The river in distant childhood. The apple is eaten, the train is gone, it is going to Nice somewhere, I start counting from one hundred, my life - from one. We fight, cry with her in unison, clowns in the arena. "Twenty-one," I mutter through my sleep. "Forty" - laughs time. Forty - and the first gray hair, forty-one - to the hospital. Twenty-one - I live alone, twenty: loopholes, legs in scratches, a devil in a rib, thoughts run squatting, someone is waiting for me in the yard, someone is on the tenth. Ten - I finish fourth grade, I don't have to have breakfast. We must hurry with all our legs and eyes. It will be nine in August. Eight - to carry the keys around the neck, to melt in a sunny anthem ...


Three. Two. One. I'm going to look. God help me.