Mom is waving in the window, anxious.
The last package of baby food has been stuffed into the car.
The door slams shut.
The seams of my jeans unexpectedly rip.
The next day or so will be spent on the road.
To the Donbass.
It should be quiet.
The South is different.
Steppe, poplar trees.
And suddenly colder than Moscow.
An endless queue at the border.
Days without sleep, “propping up my eyelids with matchsticks”.
Wind is blowing through my jeans.
It’s already fall.
Falling. Yellow. Naked.
And these bus stops.
Freshly painted and bright.
Almost like celebratory post-cards.
And that unexpected chill.
With white frost on the grass at night.
But the world had forgotten about it.
We have arrived.
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