⏱ ~4 min reading
Tarasyk loved the park in the spring. He would go there on his scooter, ride along the paths between the maple trees, and stop by the old fountain where sparrows splashed.
This Sunday morning he stopped because he was tired. He sat down on a bench near a lilac bush.
A grandmother was sitting on a nearby bench.
She was wearing a blue coat, buttoned up to the brim, even though the sun was already scorching. Her hair was gray, tied in a bun. At her feet was a small handbag, similar to the one his grandmother had in the village.
Grandma was looking straight ahead. At the tulip bed. She wasn't reading. She wasn't talking on the phone. She was just sitting.
Tarasik drank from the bottle of water. He looked at his grandmother again.
No one brought her coffee. No one sat next to her. No one asked how she was.
Tarasyk didn't know why, but he suddenly got up, picked up the scooter, and carried it to a nearby bench.
— Is it possible?
Grandma slowly turned her head. Her eyes were blue, with thin red veins. She was surprised.
"You can, son. Sit down.".
Tarasik sat down. He put the scooter next to him. He was silent.
Grandma was also silent. She just looked at the tulips.
"Beautiful flowers," Tarasyk finally said. Because he had to say something.
— They're beautiful. I used to plant them. In the yard where my husband and I lived.
Tarasik nodded.
— Where is your husband?
Grandma didn't answer right away.
"It's been a long time. Thirteen years.".
- And the children?
— Son in Canada. Daughter in Poltava.
— And the grandchildren?
— Two. A grandson and a granddaughter. I see them on video. It's like, you know, on the phone.
— I know. I also talk to my grandmother via video.
Grandma smiled faintly.
— Where is your grandmother?
— In the village. Near Chortkov.
— Oh, far away.
— Far away.
They fell silent again. But the silence was not like this anymore. Not lonely.
Then the grandmother spoke herself. Without looking at Tarasyk, it was as if she was talking to the tulips.
— I once lived in a village too. Near Stryi. We had a house with a cherry orchard. My husband made beehives. We had bees — good, not evil. And when the acacias bloomed, the honey came out white and fragrant.
"Why are you here?"
— My daughter moved. After I broke my leg. There are doctors nearby, a pharmacy nearby. That's right, I understand. But sometimes… — Grandma fell silent. — Sometimes I miss kindergarten.
Tarasyk listened. He didn't want to interrupt.
Grandma continued to tell stories. How she and her husband planted cherries. How their daughter was born in March, in the middle of the ice. How they celebrated Easter in the church by the river. How they went to the forest in the winter to collect snow—there was a corner with young fir trees.
Her voice was quiet, soft. Like a tide. Each sentence brought something warmer.
Tarasyk listened, and it seemed to him that he was there too — in that garden, in that house. He could smell the acacia honey. He could see his daughter's white dress for Easter.
When the grandmother fell silent, a lot of time had passed. The sun had moved to the side. The shadow of the maple tree fell on the bench.
"I'll probably go now," said the grandmother. "My daughter will argue for a long time.".
"Will you come here tomorrow?"
— I'll come if the weather is good.
"Then I'll come too.".
Grandma looked at him.
"Why do you need it, son? You're young. You need to play.".
"I can play and listen. You tell stories well.".
Her blue eyes became sparkling. She said nothing. She just placed her hand on his shoulder—dry, light as a wing.
Tarasyk rode home slowly on his scooter. It seemed to him that he was returning from something very important. Although nothing special seemed to have happened.
On Monday he came again. Grandma was already waiting. She brought him a pear from her pocket - a small one with a green barrel.
All May he came to the park on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He heard about the garden. About his husband. About his daughter's birthday. About how his grandmother used to crochet.
When he told his mother about his grandmother, her mother said:
"You know, son, you did a good thing.".
"I didn't do anything. I just sat there.".
"That's it. You sat and listened. Sometimes that's more than all the presents put together.".
Tarasyk thought for a moment. He nodded.
And then he put a handful of small lollipops in his pocket. For tomorrow. Because tomorrow is Thursday. And on Thursdays he goes to the park.
💡 Listening is also a gift.