My little homemade calendar showed that today is December 31st, which means that there are only a few hours left until New 2019.
Jim sent me a greeting card - a tiny picture printed on a sheet of paper with a photocopy of a picture of a snow-covered Russian village, peacefully dozing under the cover of a starry night.
I carefully pulled it out of the postcard and with the toothpaste that the girls taught me to use as glue, I stuck it on the bottom of the calendar.
I fixed the craft on the concrete ledge of the prison window, so that, falling asleep and waking up, I could admire the painfully familiar native landscape, which warmed my heart and carried my thoughts back to a small village lost somewhere in the endless Russian expanses of my vast Siberia.
In that painted world, the roofs of small houses were wearing lush white hats.
A gray smoke is coming from the chimney of one of them.
There is no wind, so its silhouette is even and stretches towards the sky.
Large snowflakes slowly fall to the ground.
They melt on my face, turning into warm puddles.
The trees have also changed their outfit and, like brides, stand along the deserted street covered with fluffy snow.
Lights are on in the windows of some of the houses: households are sitting in cozy rooms and waiting for the holiday.
Here I am slowly wandering through the deep snow to the house where my grandparents live.
I open the gate, walk along the narrow path, up the creaky steps to the porch.
There, in the corner, there is a yellow broom assembled from thin twigs, they are supposed to wrap the boots in front of the entrance inside.
I walk in, my cheeks flush from the sudden heat, I can smell the delicious smell of baked meat and potatoes that my grandmother always cooks in the oven for New Year's dinner.
- Masha!
- runs towards me, loudly stamping feet, my little sister Marinochka.
- Let's take off your clothes soon!
- she jumps around me.
- Mom swears, it's time to go to the table.
All gathered.
Why have you been taking so long?
- I'm going, going, - I answer, quickly take off my fur coat and hat with earflaps, pull off my felt boots and run after my sister into the hall, to the table.
Everyone is already assembled, waiting only for me, seated around the festive table.
The scent of tangerines complements the aroma of a variety of New Year's dishes.
In the corner of a spacious room, a garland on a sweeping fluffy Christmas tree is blinking with colorful lights.
The TV quietly sings the famous song from the Soviet film "Ivan Vasilyevich Changes His Profession":
The January blizzard is ringing, and the showers are lashing resiliently,
And the stars rush in circles, and the cities rustle
.
Grandpa switches the channel - five minutes before the chimes, we all listen carefully to the congratulations of the President of our country.
And now the clock is striking on the Kremlin's Spasskaya Tower.
It's time to make a wish, I think.
I don't need a lot of time, every New Year I have only one dream ...
- Happy New Year!
- came the voice of the warden in the loudspeaker, and I, with a start, find myself again in the concrete solitary confinement cell number 2E 5 of the Alexandria prison.
“... May everyone in my family be healthy,” I whispered and, pulling up my frozen knees, grabbed my heels with my hands.
"Lord, I don't need anything else."