⏱ ~4 min reading
Artem had a younger brother, Levko. Levko was still very small — he walked a little with his legs in a circle, spoke in separate words, and called Artem «Tyoma.» Artem grew older — and this word «elder» sometimes felt in his chest like a burden, and sometimes like a crown.
On Saturday, Mom wasn't home — she went to the hairdresser. Dad was sitting in the living room with his laptop. Artem was playing with blocks in the kitchen, and Levko was spinning around nearby.
There was a cup on the table. Artyom's favorite. With a yellow giraffe, whose long, long neck curled up to the very edge of the cup. Grandma had given it to him for his birthday. Artyom only drank cocoa from it.
Levko ran to the table. He stretched out his small hand — he wanted to reach it. He couldn't reach it. He jumped up. The cup wobbled, went over the edge. It went over the edge.
Click.
The cup fell to the floor. It broke into three large pieces and several smaller ones. The giraffe was cut in half - head separately, body separately.
Levko froze. Artem froze too. Something boiled in Artem's chest - hot, red. He had already opened his mouth to shout: "Why did you climb in! I told you! It's mine!"«
Levko looked at him with wide eyes. His chin trembled. He understood — something bad had happened. He didn't know what exactly, but he felt it.
Artem held back his scream. He clenched his fists. He exhaled.
One day he remembered the day when he himself—a long time ago, about two years ago—had broken his grandmother's plate with flowers. He was scared then. He cried. Mom didn't scold him—she hugged him and said, "That's a thing. Only people are whole.".
Artem squatted down.
— Levko. Stop. Don't step on it.
Levko froze in place. His eyes were full of tears, about to spill out.
Artem carefully hugged his brother. He lifted him up — Levko was heavy, but not too heavy — and carried him out of the kitchen into the hallway. He set him down there.
"Wait. Don't come here. You'll cut your legs.".
I went back. I took a broom, a dustpan. I swept up the big pieces. Then the small ones. Then again — with a wet rag — so that not a single piece of glass remained.
When the floor was clean, Artem called out:
— It is possible.
Levko came running. Not to the stove, but to Artem. He grabbed his leg. He leaned his forehead against Artem's knee.
— Darkness. Bach.
— Yes, Levka. Bah. The cup broke.
“Bah,” Levko repeated, more quietly. “Zhilaf.”.
— Giraffe. Yes.
Artem sat down on the floor. Levko sat down next to him. Artem held one piece in his hand — a giraffe's head. He smiled at her.
Dad came from the living room and heard the end of the conversation.
— What's here?
"The cup fell," Artem said calmly. "I cleaned it up.".
Dad looked at the clean floor. At Levko, who was huddled against his brother. At the giraffe's head in Artyom's hand.
"You didn't scream?"
— I wanted to. But… Levko is small. He didn’t do it on purpose.
Dad sat down next to me. He took the pieces in his palm — three large ones, two small ones.
"You know, son. I once saw an old woman glue a broken cup together with gold. Gold in all the cracks. And that cup became even more beautiful than it was.".
— Seriously?
— Seriously. That's what the Japanese do. Because they believe: a crack is history. And history is beautiful.
— Can we do it?
— Let's try. Not with gold, of course. But with glue. We'll glue the giraffe together. He'll have a thin line on his neck, like a scar. And this will be his story: how his little brother let him in and how his older brother didn't scream.
Artem nodded.
They glued the whole evening. Dad held the small pieces with tweezers. Artem put the big ones out. Levko sat to the side and handed them glue, then a rag, then just watched with wide eyes.
When Mom arrived, the cup was already dry on the windowsill. The giraffe had a thin line across its neck, like a scarf.
“What were you doing here?” Mom asked in surprise.
“The eldest was the eldest,” Dad said and winked at Artyom.
Artem blushed.
Levko ran to his mother.
— Mom! Darkness! Giraffe!
Mom laughed. She took Levko in her arms. She looked over his shoulder at her older son — and there was something in her eyes that made Artyom's chest feel wide and light.
That night the cup slept on the shelf. The next morning Artem drank cocoa from it. The cocoa was hot, with milk foam, and the giraffe scarf around his neck was like a smile.
💡 Being older means being kind.