Urban legends are not invented - they are born by themselves. It is the meaning woven between the lines, the images woven from the invisible veil of time, from the whispers of the streets, the smell of rain and the memories that are kept not by walls, but by the hearts of those who lived and are living now.
***
All over the world we are recognised, we are surprised... We are cheerful and bright, ironic, and sometimes even a little bit daring. We are cheerful and believe in the future. We give people our soul and a slightly different understanding of life. Some people call us original, others think we are too persistent. But no one, including ourselves, knows what the reason for this is...
However, if you have already begun to guess, do not rush, because perhaps your conclusions are still very far from the truth...
Odesa.
A story written with your eyes closed...
A long time ago... It's been a long time since I was in my hometown. Having reached my favourite place, where artists like to gather nowadays, I opened my easel, put a chair, sat down, closed my eyes and started listening The sounds of the city. The voices of people passing by...
Many people think that closing your eyes means you lose contact with the outside world. But in fact, as soon as you do this, a world of voices and sounds, a world of smells will open up before you... Try it and I assure you, you will be surprised how much you can learn by focusing on the senses that we rarely use in our daily hustle and bustle...
Why did I come here? A difficult question... Too many years have passed since then. At the same time, I always knew that one day it would happen. And now I'm here again. In the city where I lost everything... and was able to find myself again.
Despite the large flow of people passing by, I knew that here, in this place, I could be alone with my thoughts and memories, as if on a desert island.
None of those artists sitting nearby (and even more so - of the pedestrians passing by) would ever recognise me as the same boy, always covered in paint... The one who many years ago used to wander the city every day in search of artists sitting alone and painting. He came and looked, absorbed - and enjoyed every movement of a pencil or brush, drawing portraits, landscapes, the city...
I remember picking up fragments of written-off pencils, almost empty paint jars and tubes... Sometimes I begged for crumpled or torn sheets, but more often I stole new ones and painted, painted, painted...
And no one recognises me as an artist whose paintings are exhibited in many galleries around the world. I have never appeared in the press - perhaps, just to come back here one day, open my easel and dissolve in the emotions of the past...
***
Today was the day when, many years ago, I first saw Her. And now, for the first time, I was sitting in front of the easel, trying to restore the image erased by time... I don't know how long I stayed immersed in my memories, but at some point I opened my eyes and made my first timid sketches.
During all this time, I was never able to paint Her. Every time I stood in front of the canvas, I couldn't clearly remember her face. Only her eyes! But I didn't want to speculate - I wanted to recreate Her image in its entirety. That's why I didn't start! I knew that only sitting here I could finish what I had been afraid to start all my life...
When I paint, the world around me seems to cease to exist. It's like I fall into a dream, waking up after which I see my next, already finished creation... And now, having taken a brush in my hand, I became a part of Her... And Her image, which I pursued in my memories, finally stopped eluding me. And now, after so many years, I saw Her as clearly as if She were standing in front of me, as She was then, on that very day
Bright, large, expressive eyes that seemed to reflect the sky, the city, the people - everything that surrounded us... "I could never understand how old She was... "She was always subtly different. When She was laughing and having fun, and the Odesa sun seemed to shine from Her eyes, it seemed that She was twenty-five. And when She was sad, wisdom and age appeared in Her eyes, which were completely incompatible with Her image "She had so many shades that I had the feeling of communicating with several people at the same time
"But now, I had to gather all Her images into one. Into the one that was becoming more and more distinct on the canvas with each touch of the brush in my hand. I had been waiting for this moment for many years, but now I was trying my best not to rush. I wanted to stretch out both the painting and the visit itself - at least for a few days. I knew that as soon as I finished the portrait, I would have a desire to leave. Because the joy of meeting my hometown overshadowed the inevitability - in the countless variants of fate, there was not a single one in which I could see her again. And although I always understood that this was Her choice, I never felt any better about it...
***
I remember the first time I met Her... I was about ten years old and homeless. I wandered the streets and did everything a street kid should do... I used to bully, fight, steal fruit at the Privoz market... In short, it seemed that life did not have the best plans for me. However, what other options could someone who lost his family in childhood and was left alone have? In general, I had little choice.
That day, as usual, I was going to eat something tasty at the market first. And then I wanted to go to the artists, who were always "counting crows" while I quietly crept closer, stole their paints - and then laughed as they looked around in confusion...
But it seems that this day had its own plans for me.
When the seller at the fruit stand turned away to say something to a neighbour, and I reached for some pears, someone grabbed my arm. I wanted to pull away, but it was not to be. This person, not letting go of my hand and holding my shoulder, led me to the exit from the rows, sat down in front of me, and handed me the same pear. The one that I never managed to steal...
It was a girl. She looked about twenty-five years old. Although, what could I know about age, being a ten-year-old boy? I took the pear, and she suddenly smiled and said that there was more and handed me a small jar of paints. I reached for it in surprise, but She pressed the jar to me and said that She would not give it to me just like that. "This will be an exchange," She said. You won't have to steal any more fruit or paints, but in exchange I want you to paint.
It was the first time anyone had ever offered me anything for nothing. There was such warmth in Her eyes that subtle but very good memories from my childhood began to awaken inside me. And although one part of me wanted to run away, the other part of me seemed to be stuck to the ground. She looked at me, I looked at Her. And we were both silent...
"Then She smiled and said that although I was an important person, sitting on the sidewalk near the market was not exactly what She had planned for the morning. And we went somewhere. I remember being scared at first. I was afraid that She would let me go and all this would disappear like a dream. So I hugged Her and held Her tightly, very tightly... It seemed that I was ready to disappear with this dream - just to never be alone again.
She led me to Shevchenko Park, the very place where two or three artists often gathered to paint the sea, the port... The same artists I had stolen paints from more than once. "Wait here for a second," She asked. - "I'll get something for you." She went away. I stood there waiting, knowing that nothing in this world could move me.
But suddenly someone shouted from the side:
- "There he is! He's the one stealing our paints! I turned around and saw a policeman running in my direction and one of the artists - the one who suffered more often than others from my antics, which were clearly not childish for him. He pointed confidently at me...
In an instant, I forgot everything... I knew first-hand what happens when the police catch children who run away from a boarding school. Especially if you run away during school, without permission, and even stealing . Yes, I just took a couple of almost empty tubes of paint... But the understanding of the pain and humiliation that awaited me for this left me no chance to stay put. I took off running. I ran as fast as I could, as far as I could see, until I stopped hearing the voices of my pursuers behind me.
It's probably not surprising that as a result of this chase, I ended up in my "secret place" - among the trees on the Langeron. I often hid there when I wanted to be alone or ran away, despite possible punishment.
And then I remembered Her... It was unbearably painful. For the first time in many years, I was holding the hand of a person who reminded me of something forgotten, good, almost impossible from my childhood... I sat and cried, looking through my tears at other children - how they were playing with their parents on the beach, how they were swimming with their brothers or sisters... I don't remember how long I stayed in this unfortunately all-too-familiar loneliness, full of pain and longing...
"But suddenly She sat down next to me. She hugged me and, without saying a word, pressed me to herself. And the pain went away. Not immediately, but it went away... Somewhere far away - beyond the sea horizon. So we sat there, looking at the sea and listening to the seagulls and the surf...
"And after a while, she asked me, as if nothing had happened, why should she run after you all day? And even more so to carry this with her! And she pointed to the easel standing next to me... "She handed me the paints and said that it was time to stop stealing them and that it was probably time to try what they were really intended for
"I did not argue with Her - not because I liked to paint, but because She said so A person next to whom the world became completely different. "Because looking into Her eyes, I saw a reflection of future events that I could not yet realise But I knew one thing - I had to do what She said.
I went to the easel, took a brush and paints And at that moment, She hugged me from behind and whispered quietly in my ear:
- Come on, my little artist... I believe in you. I will buy the paints and fruit. And when you paint your first landscape, we will meet again...
The meaning of these words did not immediately dawn on me. But when I turned around, she was gone. She was gone - as suddenly as she had appeared... And I stood there as if hypnotised. It seemed that She was still there. She was just standing behind me. And waiting. Waiting for me to start painting...
And I did. For days, weeks, months... I came there at different times - in the morning, in the evening, even at night. And every time, in my secret place, an easel, paints and fresh fruit were waiting for me. Everything was there. Everything - except Her. "Did I look for Her? No. Because every time I approached the easel and picked up a brush, I could feel Her embrace... Her hands on my shoulders... Her warmth, which seemed to never disappear.
That's why I painted. All my free time. Because only then I felt that I was truly alive. That I was truly happy.
And also... I've never made a landscape. Not a single one. Until a certain moment...
***
I was distracted from my thoughts by a quiet, slightly coughing voice... It was as if I emerged from a stream of memories - and saw Her face on the canvas in front of me. Though, perhaps, not yet a face... so far only eyes. Those very eyes - special, unique... The ones that always illuminated Her face, competing in brightness even with the Odesa sun. For the first time in many years, I looked into Her eyes. They were as alive as possible. They were so alive that my heart clenched sadly. But the voice behind me became more and more insistent
Sorry to disturb you - the voice did not lag behind, and I reluctantly tore my eyes away from the canvas. Turning around, I saw an old man leaning on a cane. He was standing right next to me and looking at my sketch - not yet finished, but already full of meaning. I looked at him, and he didn't take his eyes off the painting.
- "It's not for sale," I said, snapping out of my stupor and trying to make a joke.
The old man was silent, and then, still not taking his eyes off the canvas, he asked quietly:
- Excuse me... Did you know her?
- "Yes," I answered. "Why?
- The thing is... - he mumbled and stumbled. - Could you... could you wait? I'll be right back. Please don't leave. I need to give you something...
He hurried off down the alley, and I followed him, slightly dazed. "Crazy old man," I thought. But I was in no hurry anyway.
All my attention was drawn to these first, but so important to me, sketches. I would not confuse Her eyes with anyone else's in this world. For many years, I subconsciously searched for them in the eyes of people who passed me. In different cities, in different countries... But no one had Her eyes.
I sat down on a nearby bench, a little distantly, to enjoy the look that pierced me from the canvas.
- Well, hello... - I smiled, remembering how I had occasionally mentally "talked" to Her, sharing important moments of my life...
But at that moment, the sound of a passing tram tore another fragment from my memory...
***
I was already sixteen. I was walking down the street covered in paint - excited, sleepless, but happy. During these six years, I learned to paint everything... except landscapes. They persistently and stubbornly eluded me, as if they deliberately did not want to give in. I put everything into them: inspiration, effort, soul... But the result was always wrong. And today, on the very day I met her many years ago, something happened that I had been waiting for all these years. I finally got my first real landscape.
My mind was racing, and I couldn't sit still, so I decided to catch my breath and walk through the streets of the city. The shrill signal of a tram pulled me out of my inner euphoria. When I came to my senses, I realised that I was standing on the rails, and in a few seconds I would be under the wheels of a car rushing towards me... I even saw the driver, who was shouting something at me and showing me that he was desperately slamming on the brakes, but he had no time to do anything...
Someone's hand saved me - it abruptly stopped me by the shoulder and threw me back. I lost my balance and fell on my back, but the same hand managed to pick me up, preventing me from hitting my head. The tram rumbled past. I sat down on the curb, still stunned. She sat down next to me. I looked at Her and could not believe my eyes. And She - as if nothing had happened, as if these six years had not happened - asked me: why do all our meetings end with sitting on the sidewalk? Why does She always have to throw something to save me? Who washes my always paint-stained trousers? And in general, what am I thinking, throwing myself in front of trams?
I looked at Her and was afraid to move... She leaned down and whispered in my ear that She was in a hurry and that if I had forgotten how to speak over the years, then maybe She should come a little later, when I would learn again?
I grabbed her hand and said:
- No, don't go. I painted it! My first landscape...
- "Really?" She smiled as if she knew this without me. "But since you mentioned that you can speak, perhaps you could give me some tea and tell me how you are doing?
It seemed to me that we were walking and talking non-stop. But, looking back, I realised that I was the only one talking. And She was listening attentively. I wanted to tell Her how I started painting, what my first works were like, and everything that had happened to me over the years.
She listened - attentively, silently. But I felt inside: She already knows everything. Every detail. Every pain. Every joy. Everything that had happened to me all this time.
She was looking at me and Her eyes, and the light coming from them, seemed to heal all the troubles that had come my way.
I always had a feeling that inside I was like a broken mirror. My fate, my childhood in an orphanage, everything I had to go through, did not allow me to truly open up in what I loved as a child... in what I could only come to thanks to Her. "But now, under Her gaze, it seemed to me that all the scattered fragments of my inner world were coming together!
We walked for a long time, and I did not even notice at what point I took Her hand. Like a boy - one who does not want to grow up and wants to be close to the One who reminds him of his childhood... of the childhood he never had... Someone to show them the way to the future, which is so frightening for everyone at this age.
And She brought... Yes, yes, that's exactly what she said: "Come in, this way." I knew this place, but I didn't even notice how we got here - we were so engrossed in the conversation. I stopped a little surprised - why are we here? And She smiled and easily pushed me forward and said: "You seem to have forgotten who is asking the questions here.
The artist. A Greek woman. That's what everyone called her. A place where painters and sculptors studied. A place that I passed by with awe and a hidden dream...
She led me confidently, or rather pushed me through the corridors. We turned a corner, went up a flight of stairs, and in the end, with a sharp movement, She literally pushed me through the open door of an office.
In front of me at the table was the same artist... The one who once set a policeman on me. I was stunned.
- "Sit down," he said without looking up.
- "No, I'll stand," I mumbled, not understanding what I was doing here... or what was going to happen next.
He looked at me and, clearly not recognising me, said indifferently:
- "Well, okay... I'm in a hurry anyway. And the question about you was already decided in advance. The Admissions Committee has unanimously enrolled you as a student. You can start classes on the first of September.
I put some signatures and then added some, it's a bit warmer:
- "Thank you for sending your work. For your age, it's great. Especially your landscape...
But... But...
I wanted to say that I didn't send anything. But when I looked away from him, I froze. All my works were in front of me. All the ones I painted in the same place on Lanzheron. And the same landscape... Completed only a few hours ago. It was right in front of him - on the same easel she had given him.
Apparently, he was waiting for at least some more words from me. But without waiting, he calmly said:
- "Talented artists are often not very verbose.
Then, as if to sum up:
- If you really have nothing more to add, I will be glad to see you among my students. And now... I'm sorry, I'm very busy.
He confirmed this with a slight smile and a nod towards the door, making it clear that I had to go.
I backed up, walked out of the office... then out of the building... Yes, this was my dream. The same one I had been working towards all these years. But now my thoughts were on something else entirely. Where is she? I looked around the yard, the street, the building... She was neither inside nor outside. Almost knowing the answer, I turned and looked into the office. The man was still sitting at his desk, busy with some papers.
- "Excuse me," I asked, "have you seen the woman I came with?
He raised an eyebrow in surprise: - "I'm sorry, but... you were alone. No one was with you.
***
The voice of the returning elderly man pulled me out of my memories again:
- Did I keep you too long?
- No... I'm not in a hurry at all, - I answered automatically, snapping out of my thoughts.
He sat down on the bench next to me and looked at the portrait for a long time.
- "You know..." he said quietly, "I thought all this would go away with me. I thought I would never know what was hidden in those eyes... I thought that all this was just old man's nonsense.
But you... You are a living person. You knew Her.
This means... this means that all this is true.
I looked at him even more surprised - and only then did I notice that he was holding a large, even bulky box. It looked as if it was many decades old. There was something... strange about it. It was as if it already contained a story that he was afraid to tell out loud.
- "Did you know her?" I asked, catching his gaze as if frozen on a portrait.
- Я? No... - he answered quietly. - "I did not know Her. But they - they all knew Her...
He paused, and then, leaning slightly forward, put his hand on the box:
- ...and thanks to them, I came to know Her.
- "I don't understand you," I said, looking at him in utter bewilderment.
He did not answer immediately. At first he looked me in the eyes, then somewhere to the side, as if he was trying to see through the trees something that had long since passed. And finally, as if by accident, he asked me a question:
- "Do you know that the Main Post Office is located over there, in that direction?
- "Yes, I know... - I nodded. "I've been there several times, bought stamps. But what does it have to do with this?
- It has everything to do with it... - he answered quietly. - "For many years I worked there as a cleaner. It was just a normal job... night, an empty hall, rare rustling of papers... But one day I found a box of unclaimed mail. He was silent for a moment, as if checking whether I was ready to hear what he was going to tell me.
- It was a little different from the others. Most of the time, all such letters are sorted by addressees, by streets, by zip codes... But these were without an address. Almost...
He put his palm on the lid of the box, as if it contained something that had changed his whole life. Then he looked at me.
- "I showed it to my boss," he continued, "but he didn't even look inside. He glanced at the box's labelling - it said "undeliverable" - and waved his hand: throw away everything with that inscription. As if it was just rubbish...
He squeezed the lid of the box a little tighter, as if he still couldn't believe that everything could have ended then - in one minute, with one indifferent gesture.
- "But I didn't throw it away," he added quietly. - "I couldn't...
- These are someone's fates, dreams, hopes... Someone had to save them. I took them home and opened the first one... then the second..." He was silent for a moment. - For many years I read them over and over again. And I had a dream - to meet Her one day. Unfortunately... it never came true. But I was able to meet you. This means that the fate of these letters is now in your hands.
- Now they are all yours. And I... I should probably go. I've been waiting for you for too long." He put the box next to me and placed a yellowed letter on top.
I took that first letter... Everything about it told me that it was much older than I was. The paper, the faded ink, the curves of time... But my curiosity didn't allow me to look at the appearance for too long. I was in a hurry to find out what was inside.
Carefully removing the folded sheet from the envelope, I unfolded it and... did not immediately believe what I saw.
There was Her portrait on the old, yellowed paper. The pencil, though partially erased by time, conveyed the look with the same precision that I had tried to put in my sketch. These were Her eyes. The same ones that were looking at me from the easel standing next to me... I would not confuse them with anything else in this world... "But how?
How could a letter that felt like it was a decade or more older than me contain her portrait?
Her gaze from this fragile, almost crumbling sheet seemed to evoke with a slight smile the memory of that third and last meeting.
***
I remember taking my last exam in Hrekivka. And then I came to collect my documents. I was handed an envelope with my diploma and a bunch of other papers, formalities... And they said:
- "You are one of the most talented students we have ever had. We are sure you will be heard from again and again.
And what about me? I nodded and thanked them... But inside I suddenly realised that I didn't know what to do next. Yes, I loved to paint. Yes, I was told that I had a talent. But did I understand where to go? What to do next? No. I didn't.
I was leaving the building where I had spent the last few years, holding an envelope with my diploma and papers... Who did I see? Opposite the entrance, leaning against a tree, She was standing. Was I surprised? I do not know... Suddenly, a feeling flashed inside me as if I had been waiting for this very moment all this time. That I would come out and meet Her. And so, we stood there looking at each other.
What happened next? It's hard to say... I already had many friends. There were mentors, teachers, even admirers of my talent. But She was someone else. She was someone else. The person who saw in me not who I was, but who I could become.
The one who not only felt my way, but led me along it, carrying me by the hand through fears, doubts and loneliness.
I saw Her only twice in my life. But I have never had a closer and more dear person... I went up to her and hugged her. I said thank you. And she laughed and said that thank you for tea is not the best option. And we went to have tea, just like last time.
And as usual, she asked a lot of questions, and I told her a lot. I knew that there was no point in asking Her questions. Although, perhaps, I already knew everything I wanted to know about Her. I understood... I felt... "We spent the whole day together. But everything, as you know, has a tendency to end.
And then She said:
- "It is time for you to go...
I knew how these words ended. I knew what would follow. And I tried to object. I said that now I have my whole life ahead of me, and I am in no hurry... She frowned with a slight smile - only She could do that - and asked me sternly:
- "Do you want to argue with me?
"I knew that I did not. I knew from my childhood... "So I just looked at Her and asked quietly:
- "Where am I in a hurry?
- "And you look around," the answer came with the same mysterious smile.
"And at that moment I suddenly understood... We were standing at the railway station. Right next to the carriage. I was so engrossed in the conversation that I didn't notice how we got here. It's time for you to go... She handed me my envelope from Hrekivka, hugged me and almost pushed me into the carriage. "Farewells leave the carriage," the conductor said cheerfully, and closed the door in front of me. "But I... I have to go there... I muttered, confused by what was happening...
- "Your ticket says otherwise," said a uniformed lady who appeared as if from nowhere and pushed me categorically into the aisle.
- "Compartment twenty-five. And please don't get on my nerves...
She measured me with a suspicious look, squinted and, as she was leaving, shouted after me:
- "No drinking in the carriage! Is that clear?
I sat down in my seat and looked at the envelope for a long time. It was large, thick, warm in my palms. I opened it... And there, in addition to the diploma, was another letter. An invitation. To London. To the famous London Academy of Arts. I was thanked for the works I had sent. They said that I was enrolled. That everything was arranged. That I was awarded a scholarship. And that they were waiting for me.
From the first days of my studies, I could only dream about it... no, I couldn't even dream.
And now... it was real. It was real. In my hands.
- Who are you?
***
I woke up from the last memory... And, almost without breathing, I began to open the letters. One by one.
And read them. And read. Read... Each one.
Because in all these lines the voice of those who knew Her voice sounded.
And in each of them, people described their fate and said thank you to an extraordinary girl, woman, or grandmother... "The heroines of all these letters were different, of different ages, in different years and periods of the city's existence... But it was always her.
Each time She appeared in the lives of these people. She helped and disappeared... Disappeared forever, leaving behind only endless gratitude for life. The lives she saved, protected, guided...
Dozens, hundreds of letters. And no one tried to find out who she was. No one tried to explain to themselves... Because everyone, in fact, like me, understood in their hearts who she really was... These were just letters of gratitude to Her!
"Someone was, like me, an artist or a poet, someone was a doctor or a scientist, someone was an engineer Teenagers, adults, the elderly, and even children... Some of the letters were written decades ago. And some were written more than a century ago...
I no longer wanted to ask myself the question to which I always had an answer! She appeared in my life three times like a flash. She was the closest person to me. And each letter contained the same words that I uttered in the depths of my heart - every time I thought about her!
Each of these letters was a living testimony that I had not gone mad. Each last line, written by people unknown to me, sounded in unison - in hearts between which lay infinity and time.
But they were all connected by Her. In one breath. In one gratitude. For life. For destiny. For happiness - to love and be loved. For the gift of hope.
And for the chance to... be!
There are only two words at the end of each letter. Two identical words written by different hands, at different times, in different handwritings
"THANK YOU, MUM.
And on each envelope, where the addressee is usually written, there was the same name:
ODESA. MUM.
I looked around, but I was the only one sitting on the bench, and on my lap was a box of letters...
***
A new day began in the morning. A different one for everyone. Somewhere at the airport I was the last in line for check-in. And somewhere in a hospital ward, at the bedside of an unknown old man, a woman was sitting, holding his hand.
He looked at her with quiet gratitude, and her eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world, reflected his whole life
Somewhere it was starting to rain... The first drops fell on the portrait. The same one - painted by me. The one I did not dare to take with me. After all, She, depicted in it, was the soul of this city. And she could not leave it. Even in the form of a picture.
Raindrops gently washed the watercolour off the canvas, and I was the last one to climb the plane's stairs...
Holding out my ticket, I turned around and took one last look at the city I loved the most in the world. And when I turned around, I felt someone hugging me from behind and whispering in my ear in a voice that sounded like my own:
- "Hello, my little artist...
I was very happy to see you.
I know you've grown up and become as talented as I've always dreamed you would be.
Come visit me again. I'll be waiting...
I didn't turn round. I knew I wouldn't see anyone. I just stood there. Silently.
The stewardess gently took the ticket and passport of a citizen of another country from my still outstretched hands and, with a slight smile, asked:
- Are you going home, man... or not?
I looked at her. Then - at the city behind me. And I answered quietly:
- No. I'm already home...
The plane's doors had already closed, and I was still standing on the ramp. I stood there and realised that I had returned. I returned to Her. I returned to myself.
I returned to the City that we all call Mother. To the City that changes us.
Which gives us strength. Talents. Which lets us go... But always waiting.
Like Mum.
***
It was still raining. A woman was walking down the cathedral, holding her child's hand... The artists were covering their paintings, and only one stood in the rain with his picture almost completely blurred.
The child raised his head and asked the woman:
- Have you ever been on an aeroplane?
She smiled and sat down next to him and said:
- No, I haven't. But you will fly one day. I promise you, tell me, have you ever been on a plane?
She squatted down next to him and said that life is always in our hands, we just have to not be afraid to dream!
Did anyone recognise this boy, who had recently been begging for money at a nearby crossroads, and now was walking down the street, clutching a medical book to his chest - the one that seemed to be ahead of his age, but determined his fate? Hardly.
After all, everyone who passed by could not take their eyes off him... But from his eyes. From those very eyes - beautiful, deep, in which we all were reflected
Because for all of us, she is Mother...
***
p.s. Who is she? And where could you have met her? Among your family or friends, among those who were able to lend you a hand or support you in a difficult moment. You may have even met her on the streets of the city, but did you know how often she protected you from harm or guided you where your dreams could have been shattered
Each of us will answer the question of who she is in our own way.
And I was able to close my eyes and see her like that. But whatever she is, we are different because of her! And we love you, our Odesa and our Mum!
® Author: Anatoliy Kavun
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p.s. Thank you for becoming part of the universe I fill with my characters, emotions, reflections, and meanings! If you’d like to read more of my works, you can do so via the link. And if you’re curious about what brought me to authorship — you’ll find that here. All texts on the website are available in four languages (en, ua, de, ru), and you are welcome to share them with your friends, colleagues, or on social media...
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THANK YOU for helping bring emotion into a world that needs it now more than ever…