Whisper of peace

⏱ ~5 min reading

Myshko was five years old, and he could already run very fast. So fast that the wind made his ears ring, and his legs raced across the yard by themselves—past the old linden tree, past the old blue bicycle on the stand, past his grandmother's currant bushes. That day, Myshko was running after a little white ball—chasing it like a foal.

The yard was warm. The beginning of summer. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, heated asphalt, and somewhere very far away - lilies of the valley. The sun sat on Myshka's shoulders, like an affectionate cat.

And then - suddenly - my foot caught on a stone.

Misha didn't even have time to be surprised. He just heard: "boom!" and was already lying on the hot ground, his palms in the grass, and his knee burning.

He raised his head. He looked. The knee was torn. Little red drops, like berries, were protruding from the skin. And among them was a blade of grass with sticky earth. The bear froze. And then he cried.

Loudly. To the whole yard. Tears rolled down his cheeks, hot as tea. He felt like his leg was falling off. That he wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow. That this was all forever.

“Ma-a-amo-o!” he shouted.

Mom was in the yard hanging laundry on a line. She heard it, dropped a clothespin, but it fell into the grass, and came running. She didn't gasp. She didn't panic. She didn't clap her hands, "oh-oh-oh." She just knelt down next to him and looked at her knee.

"Yes," she said calmly. "That's it.".

Mom's voice was quiet - like the whisper of leaves. Misha looked at her through tears. He expected Mom to be scared too - but she wasn't scared at all. A gentle, calm face. Her hands smelled of washing powder and chamomile.

"It hurts, Mom," Misha sobbed.

"Of course it hurts, my son. You hit it.".

She didn't say "don't cry." She didn't say "it's okay." She didn't say "what's wrong with you, you're so big, and you're roaring." She just sat down next to him in the grass and put her hand on Misha's head. And she began to slowly—slowly—stroke his hair. Once. Two. Three. Like stroking a kitten.

"Everything will pass," she whispered. Quietly. Softly. Almost like a swallow flew by.

Misha listened. The word «it will pass» settled somewhere in his chest, like a little warm bean. He cried a little more—by inertia—and stopped. His nose was snotty. He snorted.

— Will it pass for sure?

— Exactly. I also had a knee drop when I was little. And my grandmother. And my great-grandmother. Everyone had it. And everyone got over it.

— And when?

"Soon. Give me your hand.".

Mom took Myshka by the hand and slowly sat him down. She didn't pull him, she didn't lift him up abruptly. Calmly. Then she took a clean handkerchief from her apron pocket — white, with a small blue cross embroidered in the corner — and gently, gently began to wash the dirt off his knee.

“Tickles?” she asked.

— A little… a little.

— Does it hurt?

Misha listened to his knee. And was surprised.

— Not really anymore.

Mom smiled. Not broadly, but gently. As only moms can.

— You see. It hurts when you're scared. And when someone is calm around you, the pain subsides. He hides. He's not interested either when you're not afraid of him.

She took a small plaster from the medicine cabinet on the bench—with bears drawn on it—and carefully stuck it on her knee. Misha looked. Now a little bear was sitting on her leg. It was even interesting.

"The bear is watching," said Misha seriously.

"Watch him, son. You watch him too. And everything will pass.".

Mom sat her son on her lap. She leaned her head against her chest. Misha could hear her heart beating steadily inside. It was pleasant — like a clock in grandma's room, ticking in the dark.

We sat for a while. A few minutes—but it seemed like the whole evening. A butterfly flew across the yard. A bucket clanged somewhere. The neighbor's dog yawned in the sun.

"Everything will pass," Misha repeated quietly to himself. Testing the words. "Everything will pass.".

"Exactly," Mom nodded.

Half an hour later, Misha was running after the ball again. Only now he was more careful - he avoided the stone. And in the evening, when his mother was bathing him in the bathtub, he looked at his knee. There was a small pink mark there - and that was it. It didn't burn. It didn't hurt.

The next morning the trace had diminished. A week later it had disappeared altogether. All that remained was a tiny speck, like a swallow's eye.

But my mother's words didn't disappear.

When a month later, Misha lost his beloved little car, he sat on the porch, folded his arms, and whispered to himself: «Everything will pass.» And he felt better.

When something new and unfamiliar was frightening in kindergarten, he would close his eyes and hear his mother's voice somewhere in his memory: "Everything will pass, my son." And his heart would stop beating like a hare.

When he first quarreled with his best friend Bohdanchyk, he also said these words. And indeed, the next day they were drawing cars together on the same sheet of paper again.

Misha understood — not with words, but with his gut, as children know how to understand — that his mother's quiet voice carries something more than just a sound. There is peace hidden in it. And peace is transmitted like a candle transmits its light to another candle. It is enough just to touch it softly.

And he promised himself: when he grows up, he will speak like that too. Quietly. Gently. With a stroke on the head. Because that's how little bruised knees and big childhood fears heal.