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Nov182012

The first winter at home

It is cold in the old house and mama keeps the stove going day and night, like in my childhood. I split wood with my father's axe, the handle is worn down exactly to my hand. In Moscow I never touched wood. Here the day starts with it.

I go to the Sunday Qurbana with mama and sit at the back of the nave, the same place. The bells, after seven years, I hear in my sleep.

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