Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Sofia Andrukhovych

clothes which flows down in smooth folds holds a wooden crutch—the only thing that touches the ground. Thorn hides the child under the spread, slowly walks around it, lovingly caressing and patting—and again pulls off the covering. The child continues hanging in the air. But no, this is not a child: the same clothes and turban, the same dark painted eyes. The shape and features of the face, its expression and bearing—everything is quite similar, but a grownup woman is now onstage: the clothing stretches over her bosoms, you can see tired skin around her eyes, bitterness in the corners of her mouth. The woman disappears under the spread, and in a minute she reappears anew. Now it is an older lady with deep wrinkles and sallow

skin. The drooping eyelids almost fully cover the faded eyes; colorless lips bend down in a bow shape. She sits motionlessly, without any visible effort, holding on to the crutch with her dried- up hand. If you look carefully you can still see in her the marvelous girl that had played the sitar. The sight is unbearably sad. The abandoned sitar continues humming, as if it says: you pass, and I remain. Its tune mixes with an uncomfortable coarse sound. It seems that it bothers Monsieur Thorn as well: his face no longer calm, he looks at the old woman questioningly. He slowly comes to her, stretches out his arms, readying himself to cover her with the silk. The old woman wheezes; coughing convulsively, her gray lips spray foamy saliva.

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