⏱ ~3 min reading
In the village, Yura's grandmother always had a vase on the old tiled stove. It was greenish, with a thin neck and tiny grapes that her grandmother had once drawn herself — a long time ago, when she was still young. In that vase, her grandmother would put wildflowers — cornflowers in the summer, viburnum branches in the fall, and lilac branches in the spring.
Yura came to his grandmother's house for the summer. The house smelled of dried herbs from the ceiling—thyme, mint, oregano—and a little bit of the hot bread that his grandmother baked on Sundays.
One day, Yura was chasing the cat Murchyk around the house. The cat ran under the table, Yura followed him, Yura laughed, the cat meowed-meowed-meowed... And suddenly, Yuri's elbow hit the stove. More precisely, the edge of the stove, where the vase was standing.
The vase shook. Yura froze - he reached out with his hand, tried to catch it - it was too late.
Tremble.
The vase fell onto the wooden floor. It broke into three large pieces and several small ones.
Yura sat down. His heart was pounding. Grandma was in the garden watering the tomatoes. Yura heard the well crane creaking.
«"Hide!"»
Yura quickly gathered the fragments. The large ones in a newspaper. The small ones in his palm. He wrapped them up. He carried them outside, far away, behind the chicken coop, where there were a bunch of old branches and some weeds. He hid them between the branches. He covered them with leaves.
He returned to the hut. He stood by the stove. The place where the vase had stood was empty. Yura moved the glass candy dish there — so that it wouldn’t be so noticeable. The candy dish didn’t stand quite like the vase, but… maybe Grandma wouldn’t notice?
Grandma turned around. Wiped her hands on her apron. Walked past the stove. Looked. Stopped.
"And where is my green one?"
Yura turned away.
— I don't know, grandma.
"That's strange. It was there in the morning.".
— I didn't see it.
Grandma chuckled. She didn't say anything else. She went to cook dinner.
Yura ate lunch — borscht with donuts. The borscht smelled of garlic and something else warm, homely. But to Yura it tasted like water. In his mouth — nothing. In his chest — a rock.
At night, Yura couldn't sleep. He lay on his pillow, staring at the ceiling. A cricket was chirping somewhere outside the window. A cat was panting at his grandmother's. And Yura lay there thinking about the vase. He thought about how his grandmother would look for it tomorrow. He thought about the little grapes that she had once drawn with her own hand. He thought about himself - how he would live here for another week, next to his grandmother, with this burden.
Yura got up. Quietly, quietly. He went to his grandmother's room. His grandmother was still awake - she was reading by the lamp.
— Grandma.
— What, kitty?
— I broke it. A vase.
Grandma put down her book. She took off her glasses. She looked at him for a long time — not angrily, but sadly.
— I know.
— How?
"You put the candy dish in the wrong place. And your face wasn't yours today.".
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I waited until you were alone. Because being alone is different.".
Yura started crying. Quietly, without hysteria — it just poured out.
— Sorry, grandma.
"I'm not angry, kitty. The vase is glass. And you are my grandson.".
Yura took his grandmother outside. He showed her where he had hidden it. The fragments lay in the newspaper like small forgotten grapes.
"You know," said the grandmother, "I'll glue it together. It won't be as beautiful as it was. But it will be. With cracks. Like life.".
The next day, Grandma really glued the vase together. The seams were visible—thin white threads. Grandma put the vase back on the stove. She brought some daisies from the meadow. The vase stood there like an old one. A little scarred.
Yura looked at her every evening. And he knew: to say it is short. To hide it is long and difficult. And the truth is that she can also hold on, even with cracks.
💡 The truth is shorter than concealment.