We hear incoming every 5-10 minutes, the slow “whomps.” Heavy artillery.
I shudder every time, because I’m no longer used to it.
LPR has been quiet for a long time now.
The night watchman at the School No. 42 distractedly drops his hand.
– But they shell all the time. Maybe it’s not exercises. Who knows.
We slowly go up the stairs.
–The physics classroom…Or used to be…
This is the second floor. There is a poster on the wall on electromagnetic waves.
Textbooks mixed up with bricks and broken glass. Rubble.
A lot of time has passed since the school became a deserted pile of rubble.
With mummified physics instruments, textbooks, and paper and glass tetrahedrons and octahedrons.
I think the schools are the most difficult aspect of this war to explain.
–They say it will be rebuilt. The school. They promised.
It’s a big, spacious school.
I can see, in my mind, kids running in waves toward the cafeteria after the bell. Someone is kicking a backpack, someone else trying to trip their friend.
Boys are pulling girls’ hair, girls scream.
The School No. 42 is now only a skeleton.
Abandoned. Without windows.
The first floor had windows covered with plywood to stop random people from getting in.
It will be many years.
But the school will be rebuilt.
I know it will be rebuilt.
It will graduate many children.
They will stand with beautiful bouquets. And with radiant smiles.
The girls will wear bows in their hair, as tradition demands, but also short skirts to horrify the older generations.
The boys will pose with their diplomas for their parents’ cameras.
Some will go behind the building to smoke, until they see a teacher.
Everyone will have flowers. Many flowers. Many, many. Everything will drown in flowers.
The school will be beautiful once again.
But I will forever remember it like this. And you should too.
This rowan tree.
Remember it forever.
Something like this must not be forgotten.
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