⏱ ~4 min reading
Artem was leaving the entrance with a ball under his arm. The boys were already waiting in the yard - they were supposed to play football until the evening.
When the door opened, he almost pushed the grandmother who was standing on the step.
Grandma was small, wearing a blue scarf. She was holding an oilcloth bag, so heavy that it dragged her hand down. The bag was full. A sprig of parsley and the corner of a green milk bag were sticking out of it.
“Excuse me,” said the grandmother, moving aside. “I’m slow.”.
Artem nodded and jumped out into the yard.
With the ball in his hands, he was already running towards the boys when something in his head pulled him back. Not a voice. Just a thought: "The bag is heavy.".
He looked around.
Grandma was standing on the step. She put the bag on the ground. She wiped her forehead with her sleeve. Then she bent down, picked up the bag again, took a step. And put it down again.
Every step is a stop.
The guys shouted for Artem. Seryozha had already started dictating commands: "I'm with Tolya, you're with Kostya, we have the ball!"«
Artem stood.
Then — he didn't understand how — he went back. To his grandmother.
"Come on, I'll carry it," he said.
Grandma raised her eyes. They were gray, with a clear dark rim. The wrinkles on her forehead rose in surprise.
"I'm alone, son. It's not far from here.".
— Where are you going?
— To the fifth entrance.
Artem looked. The fifth entrance was at the other end of the yard. Grandma would have had to walk for maybe a quarter of an hour with such a bag. And Artem would get there in two or three minutes.
"I'll carry it," he repeated more firmly. He put the ball under the bench.
"Can you handle it, son? There are two kilograms of flour.".
"I'm in the third grade," Artem said seriously. "I'm strong.".
He grabbed the handles. The bag was really heavy—like a knapsack with all the textbooks in it at once. But Artem strained and lifted it.
Grandma walked alongside. She held on to the railings where they were. She spoke quietly, as if to herself.
"I used to wear more. But after the winter, my leg is a little sore. The doctor says to rest, but how can you rest when the refrigerator is empty?".
“And your relatives?” asked Artem.
— My son is in Lviv. He comes when he can. And I'm here alone. But it's nothing, nothing. The neighbors are good. Here you are, for example. What's your name?
— Artem.
— Artem. A good name. Strong.
When they reached the fifth entrance, Artem was sweating. But he carried his bag to the fourth floor anyway—his grandmother lived there. The elevator in her entrance hadn't worked since winter.
On the threshold, the grandmother turned around.
"Will you come in? I have apples. White wine.".
Artem wanted to say, "No, the boys are waiting for me," but suddenly he thought that grandma probably rarely offers apples to anyone. Because rarely does anyone come in.
— One thing is possible.
The apple was small, round, with a ruddy side. Grandma wiped it on her apron.
— Hold it.
Artem took it. He looked up.
— Do you still need to go to the store tomorrow?
Grandma was silent.
— Yes… on Tuesday. For bread.
"I'll come by at eleven," said Artem. "I'll carry the bag.".
Grandma didn't answer right away. She just nodded—quietly, as if she was afraid to believe it.
Artem ran down the stairs, gnawing at an apple. It was sweet, with a subtle sourness.
When he ran out into the yard, the boys were already running across the field. Seryozha saw him:
— Hey, where have you been?
— He carried a bag.
"Well, you can. Join our team.".
Artem put the ball on the ground. It seemed to him that his hands were still heavy from the bag. But for some reason it was a pleasant feeling. As if his muscles were doing something right.
On Tuesday at eleven o'clock he went to his grandmother's. Then on Friday. Then every Tuesday and Friday.
The guys were surprised at first. Then they stopped. Once Seryozha went with him - carrying another bag, from another neighbor.
Grandma didn't give Artem apples anymore - she gave him potato pies. He ate them warm, sitting on the steps in front of the entrance. He looked out into the yard. The ball lay by the bench, waiting.
And strong hands - they endured everything. Bread in the bag. The ball on the field. And something else - something you can't weigh. But something you feel from the inside.
💡 Strong hands are needed for good deeds.