Mom

Mom has died. We did not see each other for some years. But I always knew - she lives in Nizhni Novgorod, In a small apartment of a five-floor house, On a high hill above the big river. I often phoned her. I knew - the good woman helps m?m, Looks after her, like one would a child, Sometimes they drink tea together , watch TV, And, probably, they talk about me. We had no possibility to meet. But both of us hoped - Soon my legs will better, And I shall come. But one month ago, In the solar July morning, I have learned - Mom has died. Mom is not present more. I never shall visit to her. I never shall argue with her, And I never will hug her. A very dear string of my soul has been torn. My favourite rain has dried up somewhere. The star of tenderness, of understanding and hope has died out. But a new star has flashed - It is the brightest of all stars - MY LOVE OF MOM. ... The summer is continues. August gives warm rains, flowers and fruits. This August is the first for me - without Mom. Mom has died. And now I love her so, As never in life.