З життя
Як коротке повернення змінило моє життя назавжди
Як одне коротке повернення перевернуло мою долу
Олеся давно не була в селі, де минуло її дитинство. Але того літа щось штовхнуло її в спину — вона взяла відпустку, кинула в чемодан речі й сіла у вечірній потяг на Черкаси. Ніч у вагоні, а на світанку — знайома стежка зі станції, що вела вздовж річки. Мета була проста — прибрати на маминій могилі. Та вона й гадки не мала, що ця подорож стане для неї початком чогось зовсім нового.
Сільський цвинтар зустрів її густим бур’яном і похилими хрестами. Все заросло так, ніби люди забули сюди дорогу. Могила мами… квіти, які колись садили разом, тепер самі проросли крізь траву, немов хтось їх підмовляв. Ніби мамина рука з того світу: “Дивись, доню, я тут…”
Сльози покотилися самі. Олеся згадала, як вони з мамою бігали на річку, як та шепотіла: “Ти обов’язково ви житимеш краще”. І ось — вона вийшла заміж за киянина, заробляла гривні, жила “як людина”. А про могилу дбала стара тітка Галя, якій передавала гроші через церковну бабусю. Але виявилося — тієї бабусі вже років п’ять як немає…
“А ти чого, дівчино, тут сама?” — її роздуми перервав тихий голос.
Олеся обернулася. Перед нею стояла дружина в вишитій хусточці. Незнайома, але голос — наче з минулого.
“Я дочка Тетяни Михайлівни… Олеся”.
“Ой, Лесю! Та я ж вас не пізнала! Я ж ваша сусідка була, Ганна Петрівна!” — старенька засміялася, і в очах у неї блиснуло щось тепле. “А я от іноді приходжу, бур’ян вириваю… Сил уже мало, але ж не можу так кинути. А тепер бачу — і ти приїхала, і все прибрала…”
“Ще й на могилі вчительки навела лад. Марії Степанівни. Не змогла пройти повз”.
“Добра справа завжди серце гріє…” — прошепотіла Ганна Петрівна і пішла собі, притоптуючи старенькими черевичками.
Того вечора Олеся повернулася до Києва, але вже іншою. Ніби хтось витер її душу свіжим рушником. І вона вирішила — треба поїхати знову. З чоловіком. Оглянути батьківську хату, може, щось полагодити. А її Сергій, закорінений міський, раптом оживився: “Давно мріяв про село!” — хоча раніше вона й слухати про це не хотіла.
Хата стояла, як стояла — дах протікав, вікна скрипіли, але за літо вони з Сергієм перетворили її на маленький рай. Запах бузька, свіжої фарби, кави на веранді… Може, тут варто залишитися довше?
А потім прийшла тітка Настя — та сама, що колись лаяла її за забуті могили. Заплакала. Сказала:
“Візьміть і мене з собою, Лесю. Хочу до сестри на могилу сходити. Помолюся… А ті слова про пам’ятник — то я з дурної образи. Для Тетяни найкращий пам’ятник — це ви. Що хату оживили, що повернулися…”
І справді — стара оселя знову засміялася дитячими голосочками. Запахло пирогами, затріщали нові двері. Олеся відчула, як це місце, яке колись називала “глушиною”, стало її силою. Незабаром ще дві покинуті хати ожили — хтось теж згадав, звідки його коріння.
Бо там, де твої предки, де твоя земля — там і твоя душа знаходить спокій. Не в мармурі чи золоті, а в пам’яті, що передається з рук у руки. У теплі хати, яка знову стала домом.
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