Alex Brand
We will meet again
Where to begin? Perhaps, from the fact that today is especially beautiful sunset. The magnificent riot of heavenly colors, from pale blue to glowing pink-red. And all this is permeated with white fluffy strokes of clouds slowly floating in the inaccessible height of the clouds. We can see how after few movements of the invisible brush in the hands of celestial wind-artist these foggy white strokes assembling… Look! The face… The fathomless eyes slowly opened and looked down for a moment – a blue dip on a white, surrounded by the tongues of the sunset flame. Another moment – and they will disappear to be opened in another place, to look again and again.
Why not? We can begin with the cloudy eyes looked at – what? What did they manage to see in the short minutes of ephemeral existence? The vast city sprawling on the banks of the majesty-flowing river spread across the banks of the city. No, not that. The magnificent royal palace illuminated by multi-colored searchlights? No. The glance slides farther, to where it is quiet, where the sea of lights gradually dies away. There, where darkness is interspersed with islands of soft, homely light. Yellow, warm. The majestic walls of the palace dissolve into the twilight of the coming evening. One small town, another. But a gust of cool April wind comes and the little cloud disappears under its pressure. The wind flies, flies … Further, below … Here came the pointed roofs, narrow ancient streets, pavements and pavements of the old uneven stone. Windows, wooden shutters, massive carved doors with cast bronze handles, polished for hundreds of years and thousands of hands touching them. A small church at the intersection of two streets. Round square, the path to the closed high lancet entrance. In the rays of the setting sun, stained-glass windows, dark gray lead covers gleam. The faces of the saints majestically gazing at the worldly vanity, wide-open, stern eyes, prostrate, stretched out in blessing. So it was and so it will be. Stone lips whisper quietly – we remember. We remember how … Long, long ago … A modest wedding in the silence of an almost empty, booming room. The bride and groom, a few friends. The low voice of the priest, the eternal question. And the eternal answer. She pronounced it in French – '' oui ''. The groom's hand, no, already her husband, slightly squeezed her hot fingers, encouraging and confirming – “oui…”. From now and forever. Till death do them part.
