The Table

I heard the first rumbles that cold morning in Kyïv.

The bucolic mist could not hide the hustle and bustle of families trying to escape the horrors of what is indescribable.

I had been there for eight months and, although protected by the comfortable warmth of that shelter, I felt everything that was happening outside.

The breeze. The wind. The fear.

Mon and dad managed to get past the soldiers who were facilitating the civilians´ exit during that week of ceasefire. In their hands, there were just two bags of clothes and belongings, and my older brother with his frightened eyes.

They had abandoned the entire load inside a truck, stopped in an inspection queue that would last at least fifteen days. And there, inside the truck, each piece of forniture hid memories, dreams and secrets.

The paintaings, with the rural landscape of Khutir Nadia, boxes with various books, the fridge, the beds and the table, which grandpa built with local wood, before the day he said goodbye.

Leaving the country was hard, but necessary.

Before we crossed the last city, dad got emotional when the bus passed in front of the hospital where he had worked as a nurse for years and where he had met mom.

Crossing the border was like turning a page, which opened onto another, completely blank page.

It was up to each one person how to fill the pages that would come.

The apartment was much smaller than the previous house.

It was empty, except for the stove that was already there and some mattresses.

The rooms were very dark, even during the day.

There was not a good ventilation and the lighting was somewhat him.

The living room was the best environment, with the best lighting.

At lunchtime, there was silence in the room.

Dad in front of the television which he had bought, mom in a corner of the living room and the brother at his bedroom with his plate and the cell phone.

Memories filled the ‘thoughts’ of the (house) and the emptiness of the apartment made the atmosphere feel colder.

There weren´t many looks.

Prayers and crying could be heard, especially at night.

Once, dad got up early in the morning and walked towards the living room window. He stood there for about two hours and seemed to be longing for better days.

A mixture of courage and cowardice invaded his heart.

‘If only I had wings’, he thought...

The morning dawned and brought the sun, but the heat still did not warm the hearts petrified by the loss of the lives that were gone.

Family ties that insisted on intertwining in the imagination.

The other night, it was mom who, waking from her nightmares and not wanting to wake up, got up upon hearing the vibrations echoing from the bedrooms into the dark hallway.

The light boxes blinked in succession, as if communicating with each other.

Following the corridor, she turned left at the end and started looking for where that sound was coming from in the empty room.

She found his cell phone vibrating under the television, informing him of the latest notification.

For a moment, she thought about checking his messages, but her attention returned to the view out the window and she sank into her thoughts.

She seemed to catch her breath as she put her hands on the windowsill, looked down (and how I wanted to know what that look was like...), caressed herself with her hands, and, back on the windowsill, at the moment of the impulse to get up, dad appeared in the room in time to hug her and they both knelt down in tears.

Another day in the city, and at lunchtime, a simple mix was served on the counter, and the midday ritual continued, devoid of glances and welcoming conversation.

The space was divided between the television in the living room, mom´s corner, and my brother´s room.

Each in their own solitary moment.

That night, a shrill scream rang out from my brother´s room, waking him up.

In a flash, he walked to the hallway and then to the living room.

His gaze remained fixed, like a prey bewitched by a ferocious predator.

There was something strange about that window.

A living picture whose landscapes seemed to invite all who looked at it to plunge into that world of watersheds.

At that moment, mom strode over and took him in her arms, stroking him until he fell asleep again.

Dad contemplated the miracle of darkness transformed into light, heralding a new day, which dawned with a thinner, less dense mist.

The aroma of tea brewing in the kitchen soothed mom, who had woken up feeling more energetic that day.

Dad, after leaving for the Market, returned back home like a diferente person, with his face beaming.

Opening the door, mom could not contain her excitement when she realized the moving truck was there, right in front of the building.

It had been almost a month since we´d left Kyïv, and the impossible had happened: Our cargo had been released by the customs department, giving rise to the feeling that life was about to begin again.

Dad realized the miracle because, after the truck arrived, the streets were invaded by crowds protesting against the war that was going on in the neighboring country.

But inside the apartment, a world of hope emerged, transforming fear into dreams and expectations.

Mom and dad were euphoric, so much excitement had invaded their hearts and oxygenated their minds, their eyes filled with tears as the furniture was unloaded.

There was the family´s life:

Boxes and boxes of clothes and various objects now occupied the living room and bedrooms, and, amidst that mess, the apartment was invaded by another emotional atmosphere, lighter and more hopeful.

The refrigerator, the wardrobe, and the beds soon found their places in the kitchen and bedrooms.

With every piece of furniture that entered the apartment, a drop of gratitude flowed from our hearts, but nothing compared to the table that had just come through the door.

Made by my paternal grandfather, who used oak, a noble wood, the table was meant to cross generations and be the link that perpetuated the gift he began, and which would evolve each generation, as he himself told my father on the day he finished it:

-On this table will rest the spell of understanding, and seated around it, you will solve your problems, no matter how difficult they may be. You will find their solution through dialogue.

The following days were a transformation in the space, gaining harmony and homely feel, which contrasted with the tension spread throughout the streets, occupied by protests and mass demonstrations throughout the city.

There was no traffic.

Crowds lined every street, every avenue, blocking the flow of the city´s routine, trying to shout to the world that something needed to be done to stop these attacks.

Inside the house, in every corner, mom had left her mark of care and affection, filling the apartment with a mixed aroma of sunflowers and field lilies.

With each day, sadness gave way to hope and the expectation of better days, but it was on that Sunday that something unexpected happened.

While mom prepared borscht and salo, dad filled the cups with uzvar, with a touch of apricot and honey.

Sitting around the table, mom, dad and my brother thanked God, while the vibrant light boxes had lost their shine and no one remembered them, amidst the enchantment of sitting at the table that revealed shared understanding.

When dad looked into mom´s eyes, he realized that his gift had been renewed, since he was able to read, in mon´s eyes, that joy would break out abruptly and overwhelmingly, transforming fears and tears into magical tenderness.

Suddenly, I felt uneasy, as the liquid I innhabited began to decrease in quantity, at the same time as I intuitively moved downward.

Those mucous walls began to expel me, while a commotion arose outside, in the living room, a rush of intensive activity.

Although the neighbor offered to drive us to the hospital, there would not be enough time, as the blocked streets would significantly get the the journey longer.

Mom then looked at dad, who ran to the room and got his surgical kit, which he had stored in one of the boxes.

My brother went to his bedroom, and he was praying for mom and me, just waiting.

Dad quickly cleaned the table, covered it with sheets, and rested mom´s head on a pillow.

On the table there were the water and blood, flowing like a river towards the floor, transforming that sacrifice into a true sacred ritual in which faith brought forth the miracle of life.

My path slowly opened, with mom moaning in pain and experiencing intense impulses with all the strength she had.

It was my second trip, and the first in which I had a heart, which accelerated for the first time on that unusual adventure.

The first time it was just a race, there were thousands around me, and only I and a few companions managed to reach the fallopian tubes.

This time, it was a diferente struggle.

A secretion invaded my respiratory system like a river that suffocated me and forced me to fight for my life, violently opening my lungs, while dad sucked the secretion from my nostrils and placed me on mom´s lap.

Although I was dazzled by that luminous focus in the backlight next to my mom´s face cast an intense light on me, upon hearing my mom´s whisper, my eyes timidly opened, as they knew it was time to contemple her gaze.