But the woman at the kitchen door burns like a fire, even though her frame is small and her hair is soft and long. Voices can be heard from the kitchen—
“Child,” Maija says and puts a finger up to her lips. Her eyes gleam like a cat’s.
“No, no!” the child cries out, burned by this fervor.
Then the door opens and someone comes out. Maija lets her into the kitchen ahead of her, into the thicket of steam and life. They cut onions, laugh, cry and never again mention what happened. All she does is now and again steal a glance at Maija. Maija is a woman. She, too, is now a woman. A bowl of fire. A tiny, bright flame, until the Star comes—The One That Brings the Rain—
Mother speaks:
“Sweetheart.”
Silence.
She opens her one good eye. She is welcomed by the white square of the window and the black fog the Dark One pulls over her vision.
All that’s left in the empty room is the dream called her life. Voices can be heard from the kitchen.
Daughter
In the darkness of midnight, Lūcija turns on the lamp and looks to see if her mother is still breathing. She’s so shriveled. Lūcija is now her mother’s mother.
The mother is her daughter’s little child.
Her mother’s mouth is opened slightly, her eyes closed.
All the witnesses to this horror gleam at her from the dresser top—diapers, sippy-cups, mugs, wet wipes. Creams for rashes and sores. Things for a child. A newborn child. Only this birth is happening backwards—from the light into the darkness.
And then the child becomes strangely still.
Daughter looks at mother. She’d give up everything for her to keep on living. But over the course of their time together all they mostly did was argue.
Daughter looks at mother. Places a hand on her. Her head is still warm, her arm still warm. The last bit of heat.
Leaving is so difficult and drawn-out.
And how this excruciating period of time finally brought them together.
All of Them
Gran’s soul is fighting its hardest to get out, fluttering in her head. Her mouth gasps for air. Her relatives take turns wetting her lips with water.
When her light is about to give out, Pāvils jumps to his feet, wails and grabs his grandmother by the shoulders.
He cries:
“Don’t fall asleep! Wake up!”
Gran comes to and asks:
“What did you do that for? All of them were coming to greet me.”
Gran dies the next day, when all her relatives have stepped out for just a moment.
But how beautiful she looks.
Granddaughter
Ieva crouches in the middle of the field and watches two giant tree stumps burn among the pile of branches. The wind has picked up and sparks fly through the air. Gran’s things are among the kindling.
Not diaries, letters, or notes—just things. Things from her final months.
The black plastic trash bags melt, split open like blistering skin, and drip into the fire. The flames lick at the dingy shoes, the warped sleeves, lace pillowcases. A mug shatters with a bang, the plastic bottles melt into puddles.
Ieva watches on as if made of stone. The fire melts her down and pours her into a different mold.
There will be nothing left when the fire burns out. Only memories.
Andrejs’s Religion
Outside it’s rainy and incredibly windy.
The woman moves into the kitchen and begins to season the meat.
Andrejs sits down at the corner of the table.
“What are you looking at?” she asks.
You can’t really know anything these days. This is only the second time they’ve met, and he’s kind of quiet. But his eyes are like razors—sharp, cutting. She could easily use them to slice the roast.
“What I’m looking at? Just looking.”
“Everyone looks for different reasons.”
“I’m not everyone. I’m Andrejs.”
“Pass me the fillet knife.”
“Which one’s that?”
“With the threaded cord.”
Andrejs hands her the knife, she cuts the roast. It’s raining outside. You can’t really know anything. These days.
But she’s a woman, a real woman. Seasoning a roast in front of him with garlic and herbs. She wants to cook it tomorrow in his honor.
He can’t look away.
A woman is a real home. Food. Children. Holidays. And shelter. Happiness.
“What are you looking at?” she asks again. She should stay quiet, the idiot. She’ll ruin the entire night with her questions.
“You’re cutting and cutting,” he answers.
“I’m done,” she says and wipes her hands on her apron, then takes it off and hangs it up. “Now what?”
They go to watch TV, but Andrejs wants her to just take off her panties already.
Outside is rainy and cold. And all the while Andrejs feels the woman next to him. He feels as if he’s the only one in the world who understands what a woman is. She doesn’t even get it herself. Look at her head dropping onto his shoulder. She’s dozed off.
At that moment, Andrejs is visited by Ieva. By memories of her.
Violently, as usual.
An awful fate.
But still—it was his fate, too.
He’s a little unsettled by the Black Balzam he drank for warmth and courage—just 100g of Balzam.
He glares at the TV, then at the woman asleep next to him. The movie of her life projects itself under her eyelids. It’s fascinating and sad to watch that kind of movie.
In his consciousness, his life separates itself into two lives. Though technically into one—at
