D O W R Y
Swaying of swings make me feel calm. Such a rhythmic is taming the noises of my soul, while I am trying to reach with tips of the toes higher and higher, pushing clouds with my feet and letting the wind rince my hair once again.
Sometimes I swing, because I want to pull away from my own weight center, sometimes – to torsion my the limited mechanism. With every swing forward and back – fresh breath of air, one more and a lot of them. And then, in my body which is full of oxygen, blood is running faster, images are changing and everything looks much more clear, in horizon full of mist reveals contours, forms, textures. And again disappears. And it goes on until i bounce and jump and land soundly on the ground.
My grandmother knits something, white, colourful, more white, more white and puts it into crispy bag. Twist with string, ivory white with red edge and give it to me. She says, its for my dowry. Now she knit less and never for dowry, though for me words "knit“ is becoming more and more beautiful, because when I hear it, I see what I never saw before – grandmother, swimming in a big afloat, diving in and out, and then calmly knitting up on the shore.
Old knitted shawls and the smell of dark drawer, cabinet door squeak reprise, field dried bedding barely appreciable moisture, the silence in the early morning, my nostalgia, childhood, dowry.