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The woods were so quiet, benevolent and fragrant. On a
high tree top a bird was sharpening its beak against the tree
bark. A deer raced past and a snake slithered by. White
cobwebs criss-crossed between pine and fir trunks.
Nadezhda dipped her hands in the dew covered wild berry
mounds and cooled her face. How would it be if she were
never to go back? If she were to go into the marsh and stay?
Among the mounds of cranberries and the marsh tea. She
would lie down in the white, damp moss, fall asleep and
force herself never to get up. And wait, perhaps wait for a
long time, wait for him to arrive and take her – death,
deliverance …
But, just look, at the morels along the roadside – tiny,
crunchy and slender-capped! And the orange-capped
scaber stalks like thumbs protruding from among the ferns,
the fists of wrinkled porcini poking out from patches of
moss and sand, and look there, the flock of peppery milk
caps in the black leaves. See the cranberries barely blushing
on the mounds of bushes and the clusters of cowberries
ripening underfoot. Nadezhda fills her lungs with the
morning air, thus finding strength, she bends and starts to
pick …
…picks and bends, bends and picks …
Nadezhda Mihailovna performs her synchronized, routine
moves.