She sent me a picture
of a bud. A bud of a flower. It was spring. Life sprang from the cold, dry
earth in her garden one cold morning in Kyiv.
Nature leapt to life. Oblivious to the bombs, missiles falling from the sky.
Oblivious to the gunfire, the Molotov cocktails raining down. Oblivious to
death.
I saw the picture. I showed him and he knew what I felt. Others wouldn't
understand. It was nothing but a pixelated, low resolution picture of a flower
pushing its way through the soil. Hoping to grow. Hoping to live. Not knowing
it might probably burn.
For me, however, it transported me back to sunny afternoons spent gardening
with her in Kyiv. I felt the dry air, smelt the freshly dug up soil, heard the
swallows fly above.
Sowing seeds. Tomatoes, aubergines, nasturtiums, geraniums. The promise of
life.
A year flew by. The air was dry again. The tulips flowered. The swallows came
again. It was spring. But Kyiv burned under the swallows flight. I wonder if
the swallows noticed the empty streets. I wonder if they noticed the difference
in sounds. Cries of terror instead of delight. Death instead of life. I wonder,
did they notice they flew alongside missiles?
