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Two Tales
happened to me. I made my
way to the summer kitchen
like a zombie, holding on to
the hand-rails of the pens.
I didn’t say “hello” to my
grandmother. I simply sat
down at the table – and she
figured out everything. She
gaveme a bowl of borsht right
away and watched me gobble
it down. Because I was really
gobbling, and not just eating
it. Grandmother looked at me
and was overjoyed. It was as
if I had become just like her
– her rightful successor. Her
shared child with the demon
of hunger. That’s why I’m so
sentimental. For us both.
When my grandfather died,
grandmother made me sleep
on his bed. And always when
I would be staying over at her
place after that, I would have
to sleep on his bed. On the
bed where my grandfather
died. But grandmother didn’t
worry herself over this. At
times I would say to her that
it was difficult for me to
sleep on that bed, that I have
nightmares, that I’m afraid,
but my words just got on my
grandmother’s nerves. She
didn’t understand me. And I
dutifully continued to dream
those nightmares.
Only at the age of twelve
did I come to realize that I
needed to run away from my
grandmother as far away and
as quickly as possible.
We were picking the string
beans in the garden together.
It was a warm August day.
Grandmother was telling
me her next story, while I
was tearing out the bean
pods, placing them for her
in big piles, and carrying
them to her yard in burlap.
I don’t know how it reached
this point, but grandmother
confessed. I don’t remember.
Perhaps I said something