⏱ ~4 min reading
Early in the morning, Ivanko and his father got out of the car at the edge of the forest. The air smelled of last year's leaves, wet bark, and something sweet—either the last strawberry somewhere in the grass, or the resin from a young pine tree. Somewhere high up, a woodpecker was knocking: knock-knock-knock-knock, like a little carpenter.
Ivanko slung a backpack with a basket of mushrooms over his shoulder. In his pocket was a folding knife that his father only allowed him to take into the forest.
"Let's walk quietly," said Dad. "The forest likes to be listened to.".
They walked along a soft path. Beneath their feet was elastic moss, like a carpet. Ivanko stopped every time he saw a red hat among the moss - and each time it turned out to be an acorn, then an inverted leaf. And then - a real boletus. Small, with a thick leg.
“This one is ours,” Dad whispered.
Ivanko cut it off carefully, as his father had shown him: so that the stem remained in the ground. The mushroom fell into the basket.
They walked on. The path turned behind an old linden tree, and here Ivanko stopped.
There was a trash can on the lawn.
Not one package. Whole piles. Plastic water bottles. Coffee cans. Torn chip bags. An old doll diaper or something. And the ugliest thing of all—a glass bottle, shattered into sharp shards.
Ivanko grimaced.
"Dad, who did this?"
Dad was silent for a long time. He took his backpack off his shoulders and placed it on the path.
"I don't know, son. Someone who forgot that this isn't their room.".
"Why don't we move on? This isn't ours.".
Dad took two thick bags out of his backpack. He handed one to Ivanko. Ivanko took it, but looked at it uncertainly.
— Dad. Well, we didn't throw it.
— Do you know, son, what I think? — Dad squatted down to be with Ivankov's height. — The forest is like a strange house that we have been allowed into. We are guests here. And a real guest, when he sees that the house is in disarray, does not say "it's not me." He helps clean up. Because otherwise the owner gets hurt.
— Who is the master here?
Dad smiled.
"Trees. Berries. Beetles. Squirrels. A woodpecker knocking over there. All of them. The forest is their home.".
Ivanko looked at the trash can with different eyes. He imagined a squirrel running along a branch and seeing broken glass below. A hedgehog hobbling around at night and cutting its paw. He felt a pang in his chest.
"Okay. I'll help.".
They worked for a long time. Dad put the glass away — carefully, in a thicker bag. Ivanko collected bottles and cans. He even found a wet sock — he took it through a burdock leaf so as not to touch it. He laughed:
— Dad, someone lost a leg here!
Dad laughed too. The sun rose higher, warming the clearing. It became warm. Ivanko took off his jacket.
When the bags were full—two full, heavy ones—there was only soft grass and a few dry twigs left on the clearing. Not a single bottle. Not a scrap of paper.
Ivanko straightened up. He wiped his forehead.
"Dad. I know this corner now. It's a little bit mine.".
— Why?
— Because I worked here.
Dad nodded slowly.
"That's right, son. What you take becomes yours. And what you treat well becomes yours the most.".
They carried the bags to the car. On the way back, Ivanko found two more boletus mushrooms and one small chanterelle. The basket was happy.
When they were loading everything into the car — the basket with mushrooms and the bags with garbage — Ivanko turned to the forest. There, deep down, a woodpecker was quietly knocking.
"Goodbye," Ivanko said quietly. "I'll be back.".
It seemed to him that the linden tree at the edge of the forest barely shook its branch. Maybe from the wind. Or maybe it was saying goodbye.
💡 The forest is not ours — we are its guests, and a good guest cleans up after themselves.