Is death something that happens to others? “Death is something that happens to others Since you are here...

On May 24, the man whose poems are still being taken away for quotes would have turned 75 years old. His name is Joseph Brodsky.

The current generation of children and teenagers does not like to read. They don't know poetry either. But for some reason Brodsky's poems remain an exception. They quote him enthusiastically, pieces of poetry are written on T-shirts, many draw portraits of Joseph Alexandrovich. What is this adoration of the poet?

It's simple. Listen to the lines

Don't leave the room, don't make a mistake,
Why leave a place where you will return in the evening?
The same as you were, especially crippled?

And if after hundreds of years
A detachment will come to dig up our city,
Then I would like to be found
Remaining forever in your arms.

Brodsky's genius is in simplicity. No pathos, no noise. Joseph Alexandrovich wove lace from simple words. His poems are filled with aching melancholy, seasoned with romanticism, a drop of sadness and a pinch of cynicism.

...We are destined to
Meet again
On one of the February days.
I'm betting on thirty-one

This winter is crazy
I didn't get off again, but it's winter
Lo and behold, it’s over.

Joseph Alexandrovich had a difficult fate. It had everything: a trial, disgrace in her homeland, arrest and exile, departure abroad. Where he found the strength to write such piercing lines remains a mystery.

Thoughts. Rhymes.
I called just to hear the voice.
I love without needing a reciprocal feeling.

Even abroad, Brodsky continues to write poetry. And invariably in Russian.

When so much is behind
Everything, especially grief,
Don't expect anyone's support
Get on the train, get off by the sea.

It is very difficult to talk about a person about whom everyone talks about his own lines. But nevertheless, Brodsky will remain for a long time the poet who was far ahead of his time.

Take the gun out of the suitcase.
Get it. And pawn it at the pawnshop.
Buy a gramophone with this money
And dance somewhere in the world.

We are parting with you forever, my friend.
Draw a simple circle on paper.
It will be me: nothing inside.
Look at it and then erase it.

1 While the flowers have not faded and the ribbon has not yet passed through the lime of summer, while it is black and free to gypsy, for it is so long that my memory, as if heeding its call, will probably pull it into winter - 2 accept this rhyme from me - a mite, which if it passes through Lethe, it will be because it went with you, your foot ahead of me; and this will be then, friend, your last service to me. 3 I didn’t think I’d see so many roses; this is a debt, a percentage, a summer penalty to someone who undoubtedly should have collected them in the fields himself, but lived only until the blossoming, and left them complete freedom in the interpretation of the rules. 4 That’s why they sleep here in bulk. For nature is honest even in small things, if it comes to our pain; however, it is not in our will to call these motives good; death is something that happens to others. 5 Death is something that happens to others. Even though every goddess has mortal favorites, it is certain that Persephone has none at all; and the ripples of convolutions trust those whose marriage is stable. 6 To remember all this while there is strength, while it is all fresh and raw, while your shell - or rather, parting with it is more painful for me than parting with your soul, about which God took upon himself with great 7 joy - about which after, whether it be Mohammed or Christ, in a word you yourself chose whom you chose earlier, during your life - you will take care of the undoubted future good - while it is a vessel of defenseless moisture. 8 Therefore, allow me in this world to speak about her, the shell, death, about what happened that evening in the Gulf of Finland and became a mystery to the envy of the sphinxes - for your shuttle did not sink at all, but remained nearby. 9 It’s unlikely that you knew about it then, a boat cannot even be an object of vigil for a soul that immediately has a lot of worries that are inaccessible to the eye, as soon as it leaves the body; You hardly knew, you hardly wanted 10 to torment us with a secret, whose complexity either aggravates the suffering (for the reason for separation is more important than separation); or it eases the torment of a detective mentality; even if you tried for the sake of these last 11, since they are still the majority, it still seems that for them, whose eyes you wanted to save from crying, the task is unsolvable; and the shine on the pearls of their dots is the tears of the first. 12 You can’t ask the seagulls, and the clouds disappeared. What could we see if we tried to look at all this with a bird's eye? How you swayed on the waves next to the boat, not heeding their sharp cries, lying at such a small and such a great distance from the shuttle. This is exactly what happens in a dream; but the fact that you did not cling is a victory: for suffering in a dream, we have the right to wake up at once and, with a trembling in our body, dig our fingers into the edge of the bed. 14 You can’t ask the seagulls, and there’s no sense in the hubbub of the waves. Only clouds remain - but the wind disperses them. For death always has a witness - he is also the victim. And you were ready for this new dual role. 15 However, even so, regardless of the dispersion of the mental makeup, in the very question “What was it?” solution solution. Suicide? Heart break in the too cold water of the bay? Life allows you to put "either". 16 This particle is by no means a handicap of the imagination, but simply a form of identity of two options, the choice between which - if chosen - transforms the immobility of pure two parallel ones into a wavy flow. 17 This particle is the nightmare of the prophets - a way of protection from all reproaches that I am ravenously rummaging in the shroud, that I “badly treat the dead” - that is, suicide is a sin and a veto; and I am behind you in assuming this. 18 For, including this incident, you were still a better Christian than I. And, perhaps, from the point of view of the Turkic singers, whose lines you sang to me, and Islam in general, there is no sin or shame in this. 19 I don’t really know. But in every faith there is that feature that at least unites it with others: these are not prohibitions, but what people were like below, during life, in a homeland full of sickles and crosses. 20 So you can go without fear: the robe of Christ or the turban of Allah, the combination of a gazelle with pilaf or flowering tabernacles - in a word, the doors are wide open to two versions of Eden, depending on faith. 21 That is, God, dressed in any dress, will accept you into his embrace, and the Father’s work here is not about love: the fact is that, having violated a rather general vague covenant, you firmly kept another, detailed one: you were kind. 22 This is more valuable in anyone’s accounts: here on earth, and in those above too. Time is the same everywhere. Years of life are everywhere more important than water, rails, a loop or the opening of a vein; all these things are almost instantaneous. 23 So, your sin, essentially speaking, is equal to the moment when you took a breath of the last air, with which you remained lying on the waters in your lungs, swaying rhythmically. And your virtue will probably outgrow this minute and the whistle of the wind, just as your age has already outgrown, for the day when I connect these lines, almost sobbing, has already exceeded the difference in the numbers carved in stone. 25 The black ribbon floats with the wind. It’s strange to leave you in this place, under a pile of flowers, in a grave, here, where people lie as they lived: in their eternal darkness, within the borders; the difference is all in the silence and the birds. 26 It’s strange now that you’re in a better vale than ours, that we should cry. Either faith is weak, or nerves are weak: pity is more appropriate than the Lord’s Glory in a world where souls live only in the body. I’m crying, as if in reality 27 something could remain alive. For when two people part, then, before opening the gate, each takes something from the other in memory of how their life was lived: the body - invisibility; soul, perhaps 28 sight and hearing. That’s why I cry because I hide my hope shallowly, as if you hear me and see me, but you won’t come to me with words: for the soul, which has collected a lot, did not speak, so as not to anger God. 29 I'm crying. Or rather, I write that tears are flowing, that lips are trembling, that roses are withering, that the smell of medicine and turf is pungent. To write about things you undoubtedly know to death means to cry for someone who does not cry herself. 30 Did you know more about death than we? Only about pain. Pain teaches not death, but life. All you knew was that it was me. You knew as much about death as a bride 31 could learn about marriage - not about love: about marriage. Not about the intensity of passions, about the slag of these passions, about the cold, biting slag - in short, about this long time of life, about winters, summers. So now, in these black ribbons, 32 you are like a bride. For you, who did not know marriage during your life, passing away from our life, covered with turf, death is marriage, this is a wedding in black, these are those bonds that are only stronger from year to year, since there is no divorce. 33 Do you hear Persephone’s voice again? The thin hair of your life curls in her hands, cut by Parka. Then Persephone sings a song over the spinning wheel about eternal fidelity to her husband; only the melody floats out. 34 We will remember you. We won't remember you. Because people tend to crave for visible objects or for objects so imaginary that they are beyond the power of the heart. And, being neither this nor that, 35 you remain a stroke, a sketch, a name, alien to your namesakes and not casting a mortal shadow even on them. What to do with those who have many more bodies than names? But these two syllables so far - 36 Tanya - still mean only your body, without allowing the anesthesia of the mind into the matter, parting my lips with them, I expose your name to publicity in the form of the last caress for the body. 37 Your name leaves a constricted throat. Using henceforth the verb created by death, so that we do not notice the loss, who knows, even I myself will hardly begin to think that you “died” and were called. 38 If I manage to live alive and healthy with this word for as many years as you have lived in the world, remember: in the year Two Thousand and One, at the risk of being included in the blasphemers, I will begin to ask to expand the calendar. 39 So, not being able to step on the waters, with each passing year you will begin to become a year, the shoes melting behind you on the waters, becoming more and more pointless; and - when I myself have not reached this date, I will move on dry land to where you 40 were the first to go, to that country where we are all just souls, incorporeal, dumb, that is, where everyone is sages, idiots - everyone We look the same as Turks - I’m unlikely to find you in those chambers, meeting you is the justification for them. 41 Maybe for the better. What could I tell you? About our weddings, childbirth, divorces, walking through copper pipes, flames, other people's lips; that is, with what unparalleled zeal we are working towards your oblivion. 42 Is it worth it? Hardly. Not worth a line. As two straight lines part at a point, intersecting, we say goodbye. It is unlikely that we will meet again, be it Heaven or Hell. These two types of posthumous life are only a continuation of the ideas of Euclid. 43 Go to sleep. You were better, and in the case of death this is always a sign, a sign of the impossibility, as in life, of dating the worst. Because you can't go down. However, down with the stilts - see you in Heaven or Hell. 1968(?)

...however, it is not in our will to call these motives good; death is something that happens to others. Joseph Brodsky

“You’re going to leave the living room in the middle of the night again,” Neville said confidently. - You can't do this. You'll get caught and Gryffindor will be in trouble again! “No, no, of course we’re not going to do anything bad,” Hermione jabbered, glancing nervously at the tall standing clock by the door. - Why don't you go to bed, Neville? It's already late. “I won’t let you out of here,” Longbottom said stubbornly. - Even if I have to fight with you. - Don't be an idiot! - Ron exploded. - Get out of the way immediately! - No! “Neville himself didn’t understand where he got so much persistence from.” Why does he even care about these three? Let them go and run into Snape and other troubles. Maybe the fact is that they finally bothered the entire faculty with their secrets? They are always whispering in the corners with such an air as if they are initiated into the Great World Truths. And everyone around them is just pathetic idiots who are unable to tie their own shoelaces. Clenching his fists, Neville took a classic boxing stance: “Come on, Weasley, come here.” “Uh-uh...” the red-haired man said and stepped behind Potter. Well, of course. Coward. A coward and a suck-up, capable only of clinging to someone else's glory. Harry looked uncertainly at Longbottom, assessed the size of his fists and turned to Granger: “Hermione, do something...” Neville grimaced. What a nightmare, and this is the Potter heir. Who raised him anyway? Hiding behind the girl's back... Lowering his hands, he prepared to listen to another portion of admonitions from Granger. How could he know that a Muggle-born idiot was capable of attacking an unarmed man? - Petrificus Totalus! - the shaggy fool shouted, and Neville felt his muscles turn to stone, refusing to obey. He swayed and fell on his back, hitting his head painfully on the watch stand. “Sorry, Neville, you’ll understand everything later,” Granger said busily, hiding her wand. - We have no choice. “It’s your own fault,” Weasley nodded. “You shouldn’t have gotten in our way.” Harry, are you coming? - What did you do with him? - Potter asked in horror. - Why is he... like this? “This is complete paralysis of the muscles of the body,” Granger explained. - Let's go, Harry, time is precious. - Isn’t this dangerous? - Potter leaned over him and carefully poked his finger in his stomach. Neville would have loved to spit in his face, but his tightly clenched jaws prevented him from even breathing through his mouth. - Absolutely not, over time the spell will wear off, and Neville will be fine again. Potter was satisfied with this explanation and allowed himself to be pulled out into the corridor by Weasley and Granger. Neville was glad that he did not have a runny nose, and began to think about what he would do with the Drakle trio. The insolent people had to be taught a lesson so that they would learn once and for all how dangerous it is for Blood Traitors and Muggles with wands to raise their hands against the heirs of ancient families. It looked like he couldn't cope without support. Grandma didn’t want to complain, but help from one of the senior students would have come in handy. Mentally going through all the relatives and descendants of the allied Clans, Longbottom felt that some sharp detail was digging into the back of his head more and more. Tensing to the limit, Neville tried to move his head to the side. Jerk! The paralyzed body did not listen. Fool Granger was a truly powerful witch. Jerk! The back of my head burned with a sharp pain. A warm trickle tickled down my neck. Neville panicked. The chance that someone would come down to the faculty lounge at such a time was negligible. Headless Nick probably spends time in the company of other ghosts. The housekeepers cleaning the living room will not appear until five in the morning. Neville did not know how long the conjured paralysis would last. But he knew that head wounds are very dangerous. If the victim is not helped in time, he can easily bleed to death. “Table! - it dawned on him. - If you manage to crawl to the table between the chairs and push it, all this rubbish placed on it will fall down and rattle. Then someone will definitely come out to see what happened!” To be honest, the plan turned out to be so-so, and Neville understood this very well. But just lying there, staring at the ceiling and feeling how the collar of the robe was slowly getting wet was simply unbearable. Taking a deep breath a couple of times, he concentrated and, with an incredible effort of will, jerked to the side. A chair and a piece of the fireplace grate flashed before his eyes, and Neville buried his face in the dull red carpet. My nose immediately began to tingle with dust. Neville tried to take a breath, but his nose was clogged with long fluff. Longbottom panicked. I urgently needed to roll over onto my back, or at least onto my side. Closing his eyes, he tried to push off the floor, but all his strength went into the last unsuccessful push. Black and purple circles swam before his eyes, there was a noise in his ears, a prickly hedgehog began to stir in his chest... And then Neville was carried into the darkness, towards a gentle white glow.

Harry opened his eyes and looked around. Apparently, he was in the hospital wing, and there were several blurry figures standing near his bed. Feeling for his glasses on the table, he put them on his nose and froze in amazement. Headmaster Dumbledore. Minister Fudge, whose photographs Harry had seen a couple of times in the Daily Prophet. Dean McGonagall, and her face looks like someone just shoved a toad down her collar. Tall, arrogant blond, father of the asshole Malfoy. Why is he here? Oh, yes, he is also the Chairman of the Board of Trustees. Was it all because he, Harry, broke the mirror? Quirrell! Harry went cold. No one knows that Quirrell had Voldemort sticking out of the back of his head. It is urgent to explain that the DADA professor, with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named possessing him, disappeared in an unknown direction, taking the Philosopher’s Stone. Yeah. And how are you supposed to tell this to the director in front of strangers? “Let me pass,” came Madam Pomfrey’s dissatisfied grumbling. - We stood here like in a museum! You'll still have time to see enough. How are you feeling, Mr. Potter? “But-okay,” Harry managed. - G-my head just hurts. Professor McGonagall took a deep breath and covered her mouth with her hand, as if she was afraid to say something unnecessary. Headmaster Dumbledore put his arm around her shoulders, sat her down on a chair and handed her a bottle of potion. Fudge and Malfoy exchanged glances and retreated to the door. Madam Pomfrey waved her wand several times, entangling Harry in a web of multi-colored spells, handed him a glass of disgusting-looking brew and, looking over his head, said into space: “There is no danger to life.” In other circumstances, I would recommend bed rest, but now... You can take it away. “Thank you, Poppy,” said Headmaster Dumbledore in a tired, somehow faded voice. - Tell me, how does Quirinus feel? “He can already be transported to Mungo without harm to health,” replied Madam Pomfrey. - As you understand, I am not an expert in cases of long-term obsession. But I can guarantee that it will withstand the fireplace transition. So the professor is here. One must think that the Philosopher's Stone is also safe. Then what happened and why are all these people here? Who were they going to take and where? Harry caught the eye of the school mediwizard, trying to get at least some clue, and shuddered. Always friendly and caring, Madam Pomfrey looked at him like he was a fat cockroach, brazenly sitting on the starched bed linen. Director Dumbledore sighed and stroked his beard, and Professor McGonagall cried silently, burying her hands in her folded hands on the back of the chair.

The dark stone walls were dimly lit by torches. To Harry's right and left were rows of mostly empty benches, but in front, where the benches stood on a raised platform, there were many dark silhouettes on them. There were several chairs in the middle of the hall, and on two of them, chained to the armrests, sat... - Ron! Hermione! Harry felt a little ashamed that he had completely forgotten about his friends. But everything that was happening was so strange, events were developing so rapidly that he simply had no time to think about anything or anyone else. He kept trying to understand what these strange looks that adults were throwing at him meant, and why no one answered his questions. The Auror accompanying him lightly held the boy by the shoulder, preventing him from approaching his comrades. Harry obediently sat down in the indicated chair and winced as the loosely dangling chains clanged around his arms and legs. The metal was unpleasantly cold on the skin, but it was strangely soothing. Harry looked up at the people sitting in front of him. Minister Fudge thoughtfully turned his ever-present bowler in his hands. To Fudge's left, Harry saw a portly witch with a square jaw and very short gray hair. A monocle gleamed in her eye, and she looked rather intimidating. To Fudge's right hand sat a tall old woman in a dark green dress and a hat decorated with a stuffed vulture. Next to her, Professor McGonagall was crumpling a handkerchief in her hands, and at the very edge of the bench, Headmaster Dumbledore was whispering with a wizard unknown to Harry in a plum-colored velvet robe. The faces of the others were hidden in the darkness. Some of them were talking quietly, but as soon as the minister clapped his hands, an ominous silence reigned in the hall. “I declare the hearing in the case of Rod Longbottom v. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley open,” Fudge loudly proclaimed. Harry felt himself getting angry. He was pulled straight out of bed, dragged into this incomprehensible room, and it turns out that all this was because of Neville’s mattress? - What's going on here? - he asked loudly, tightly gripping the armrests of the chair. - I am not to blame for anything! “Silenzio,” whispered the Auror standing behind the chairs, and Harry realized with horror that he could no longer squeeze out a sound. Judging by Ron's sympathetic look, he and Hermione had been silenced in the same way. - The case is being examined regarding the use of malicious and harmful witchcraft by Hermione Jean Granger, Harry James Potter, Heir of the Potter Family and Ronald Billius Weasley against Neville Longbottom, Heir of the Longbottom Family. Ronald Billius Weasley is accused of not stopping Hermione Jean Granger from casting a harmful spell and leaving Neville Longbottom without any help, although there was no enmity or blood between them. Harry James Potter is accused of inciting Hermione Jean Granger to harm Neville Longbottom, failing to stop her while casting a harmful spell, and leaving Neville Longbottom without any help, although there was no enmity or blood between them. Hermione Jean Granger is accused of attacking an unarmed man, using the Petrificus Totalus spell on him and leaving Neville Longbottom without any help, which led to his death. Everything inside became cold, my arms and legs turned to jelly. Perhaps, if not for the chains, Harry would not have been able to stay in the chair and slid to the floor. To death? Neville? But how?! Hysterical sobbing was heard from somewhere to the side. Mrs. Weasley. Cries without hiding. Mr. Weasley sits on the bench with an absolutely lost look, as if he does not understand where he is and how he got here. “Witness to these deeds is the portrait blocking the path to the Gryffindor common room,” Fudge continued. -As the respected Wizengamot should know, Guardian Portraits are treated with special infusions and spells so that they cannot lie, harm students even indirectly, and at the appropriate moment raise the alarm, calling for help from the dean of the faculty or any other adult magician who can resolve the situation. “However, the Fat Lady did not raise the alarm,” the sorceress with a monocle interrupted the minister. “Quite right, Madam Bones,” Fudge replied politely. - The portrait hanging at the entrance to the Gryffindor common room turned out to be not a Guardian, but an Observer. The Fat Lady fulfilled all her functions: having heard the noise, through the reverse side of the canvas she observed the entire quarrel from beginning to end, remembered every word and every gesture and began to wait for the call to report. “Thank you, Minister,” Madam Bones said dryly and wrote something down in her notebook. - We will return to the issue of portraits later. “A check of Hermione Jean Granger's wand revealed that she had indeed used the Petrificus Totalus spell,” Minister Fudge continued, clearing his throat. - There is no reason not to trust the testimony of the Observing Portrait. The Fat Lady was carefully checked by Auror staff and specialists from the Department of Mysteries; no extraneous influences were exerted on the portrait. Thus, the guilt of Hermione Granger, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley is completely proven. “Our Family is practically destroyed,” said the old lady in a hat with a stuffed animal. - Neville is dead. Frank is worse than dead. There was no hope left for the restoration of the family. If I die, Rod will die. I must and want to leave with honor, taking revenge on those I can reach. As the last representative of the Longbottom family, according to the Code of the Family, I demand payment for the death of the Heir, and it must be paid in full and immediately, without subterfuge or excuses! There was fidgeting and whispering on the upper benches. Harry didn't really understand what Mrs. Longbottom had said. It was only clear that this did not bode well. “If anyone has reasonable arguments in defense of the defendants, the Wizengamot is ready to listen to them,” Minister Fudge muttered quickly. “I ask the respected Wizengamot to speak,” Lucius Malfoy rose from his seat. Harry looked at him and desperately hoped for a miracle. Now he will say that Neville is alive, and there is nothing to worry about, and Harry, Hermione and Ron were just joking. They will be scolded, a bunch of points will be taken off, maybe they will be given detention for the whole next year and sent home. After all, they didn’t mean anything bad! They were saving the Philosopher's Stone from Voldemort! It's not their fault! It's nobody's fault! “I ask the respected Wizengamot and Lady Longbottom to take into account that the accused Harry James Potter is also the Heir of the Family. Although his actions led to the death of the Heir of the Longbottom Family, he did not take direct actions that contributed to this. In the event of the death of Harry James Potter, another ancient Family will be interrupted, of which there are only a few left. I ask the respected Wizengamot to take this into account when passing judgment. Harry couldn't believe his ears. In case of death? How? Why? This is impossible! He just can't die! Albus Dumbledore carefully averted his eyes from the chairs with the accused. Minerva McGonagall patted Mrs. Longbottom on the shoulder and said something quietly. Molly Weasley cried out loud without hiding. Arthur Weasley looked ahead with a blank expression on his face. There was quite a commotion on the upper benches. The venerable magicians were animatedly discussing something, waving their arms and pointing their fingers at a huge tome that had come from nowhere. Someone passed a note to Madam Bones. She unfolded the scroll, read it, raised an eyebrow in surprise, and handed the note to Fudge. The Minister nodded, motioned for Mr. Weasley to come to him, and all three went upstairs to where the fate of Harry, Ron and Hermione was being decided. Albus Dumbledore walked behind them and Mrs. Longbottom followed majestically. Harry mindlessly picked at the lacquered wood of the armrest with his finger, and in his ears, like the sound of the wheels of the Hogwarts Express, the same words beat rhythmically: “It can’t-be-it-can’t-be...”

Holding his breath, Harry watched as Minister Fudge, Madam Bones, Mrs. Longbottom and the others descended and took their seats. The hall fell silent. Minister Fudge stood so that both the accused and the magicians gathered in the hall could see his face. - Having considered the case of the use of malicious and harmful witchcraft by Hermione Jean Granger, Harry James Potter, Heir of the House of Potter and Ronald Billius Weasley against Neville Longbottom, Heir of the House of Longbottom, resulting in his death, and having taken into account the claims of Lady Longbottom, the last representative of the House of Longbottom, The Wizengamot has decreed that Ronald Weasley will be expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. From now on and forever he is prohibited from using magic, his magic wand will be broken, and for the rest of his life he has no right to leave the place of residence that will be determined for him by the Wizengamot. All members of the Weasley family present in Britain are prohibited from holding public positions and using magic in public places. Ginevra Molly Weasley will undergo the rite of Severance from the Family and will enter the custody of the Ministry until she reaches marriageable age. Let everything said to Rod Longbottom be true! “I’m taking the virus,” the old lady answered loudly. - Harry Potter, heir to the Potter Family, is declared incompetent and expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. From now on and forever he is prohibited from using magic, his magic wand will be broken, and he himself comes under the care of the Ministry, with restrictions on his rights and freedoms. The Guardianship Commission will be formed at the next meeting of the Wizengamot, at which time Harry Potter's place of residence will be determined. All movable and immovable property belonging to the Potter Family also comes under the care of the Ministry, so that it is transferred to the children of Harry James Potter when they reach adulthood. Once Ginevra Weasley reaches marriageable age, she will marry Harry Potter and will be required to give birth to at least three children and at least two capable Heirs of the Potter Family. Let everything said to Rod Longbottom be true! “I’m taking the virus,” Mrs. Longbottom bowed her head. - Hermione Granger, who does not have movable or immovable property, is not a bearer of pure blood, does not have special talents and abilities that can be used for the benefit of the magical world, has nothing but a magic wand and her own life, is expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and sentenced to the dementor's kiss. May her life be a sacrifice for the life of the Heir of the Longbottom Family! - I’m taking the virus! - repeated the old lady, and her eyes sparkled with evil triumph. Harry shook his head in confusion. Hermione turned pale, large tears streaming down her face. Ron struggled against the chains, turning purple from the effort. And he himself... he could not fully believe what had happened. Leave Hogwarts? Never cast another spell again? Not seeing friends, not going to the Great Hall, not picking fights with Malfoy... But he will live. Then Harry felt an attentive gaze on him and shuddered. It seems he was mistaken, and there will be plenty of Malfoys in his life. They took Ron away. Someone casually picked up the unconscious Hermione with a Levitation spell, and her thin figure with a mop of fluffy hair slowly floated out into the corridor. He will live. Let it be under guardianship - it’s unlikely to be worse than the Dursleys. Even without magic, he lived without it for eleven years. Death passed him by again. Death is something that happens to others.

It was Friday, summer rain was falling outside the window, which made it a little sleepy, but homely. We were settling into a new apartment, a cat was sitting in the kitchen, I finished my coffee and looked out the window... For some reason the thought flashed through my head: “Somewhere far away your son is dying.”

My youngest son was in the hospital. From birth. Genetic problems. On that day he was 3 months and 18 days old. I knew about the unfavorable prognosis. She knew, but didn't believe it. “People in Leningrad and Rome think that death is something that happens to others.” These lines from Sasha Vasilyev fit my mood at that time perfectly. I really thought so. My child and death. No, this is an impossible connection. All my problems are always some kind of nonsense. They said the wrong thing, they didn’t understand or I didn’t understand, I had a fight with it, my husband wants a classic set in the kitchen, but I want a “modern” style. That's about it. Death cannot relate to me.

No, my beloved grandmother died. The man who raised me in many ways. A person I still check in with to this day. I did something and thought: “How would grandma react?” If you feel ashamed in front of your grandmother, it means you did something bad. And a few years before my grandmother, my grandfather died. On the street, from a heart attack. Grandmother was with us, in Moscow. And grandfather is at home in the Urals. We found out about three days later and realized that we couldn’t get through by phone for several days in a row. Grandfather was the sun. No, really, without any vulgar sentimentality. He limped since childhood and was deaf from the age of 30, but until the age of 72 he worked as a blacksmith. He was also kind and cheerful. One of the kindest people I know. And he knew how to love. He never told us that he loved us, but we all knew it very well. That was painful too. But... it’s natural or something. They lived a long life, raised children and grandchildren, experienced and did a lot.

You treat the death of older relatives differently. From the moment when I realized the idea of death in childhood, I knew for sure that a moment would come when all of them, elders, loved ones, would leave. And grandmother, and grandfather, and mom and dad...

But all this is not the same. I didn’t think then that not only the elders could leave. Then, much later than that first realization, my younger brother’s friend died. We knew each other, he treated me very well and was probably even a little in love at one time. Well, you know how sometimes boys fall in love with their friends' older sisters? So childish. He looked into his eyes and said with a breath: “Ira...”. I was walking along the highway at night and didn’t notice the bus... Dimka. Always “Dimka”, so funny, a little intrusive, I always wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. With huge eyes and thick eyelashes.

But this, of course, is not it. When my eldest was born, I looked at him and at first I was paralyzed by fear. He is so good and amazing that it seemed to me: this doesn’t happen, boys with such smart and beautiful eyes cannot exist here at all. Then the thought came to me that everything was right. Little children change rapidly every day. And the boy who is today will no longer be there tomorrow. There will be another one. With the same eyes, just as wonderful, but different. A little more. This discovery calmed me a little. I didn’t stop running to the crib and listening to my breathing, but the paralyzing fear subsided a little.

It wasn't like that with the younger one. I haven’t breastfed my youngest for a day. He had trouble breathing and it was impossible. I never even picked him up; all these wires to various life-sustaining equipment did not provide such an opportunity. Doctors either gave hope or said that nothing could be changed.

... A couple of hours after that sudden thought, they called from the intensive care unit with a message about a sudden deterioration in my condition and asked me to come sign documents. I got ready, agreed with my mother-in-law that I would bring her the eldest (it’s surprising that she was at home, in the summer she’s usually at the dacha all the time) and went to the hospital. I was very scared, I chatted on all social networks that I could reach on my mobile, trying to drive away any thoughts about what this sudden deterioration in condition meant. She jokingly asked if it was possible to eat shawarma at the Kievsky station and whether I would survive after it. On the train, while traveling to Solntsevo, I read something. I don’t remember exactly what it was, though.

The doctor did not come to see me for a long time. And the nurses, hearing my name, lowered their eyes. Everything was clear, but I desperately wanted to believe that my condition was simply getting worse. How many times during those three and a half months did this happen - they either put me on a ventilator, then they take me off, then they prepare for the very “worst”, then they say: “Nothing, we’ll fight again!” So it seems, but not so. The doctor came. Out of breath, she climbed the stairs. I looked into her eyes and understood everything without words. But she said them anyway, she couldn’t help but say: “Your child has passed away.” For the next few minutes I didn’t know what to say or what to do. But saving thoughts came to mind. About everyday and earthly things. She asked what to do right now. It turned out that there was nothing to do until Monday. And then you will have to come to another hospital, where there will be an autopsy, they will issue the necessary documents and tell you everything.

I went down to the exit. It was raining outside again. I tried to wait it out. I wrote a short text message to my husband: “That’s it.” He was going to a corporate event and for some reason asked what he should do - go home or with colleagues. I understood that we still wouldn’t be able to communicate and asked to go there, but before that, negotiate with my mother so that the eldest would stay with her. Then I somehow miraculously walked to the station - I opened my umbrella, then closed it, despite the continued rain, then I wanted to catch a car, then I looked for bus stops.

For some reason I wrote on Facebook: “I am again a mother of one child.” They started putting crosses on me, writing words of consolation, but I really remember the answer of one woman: “Ira, you will always be a mother of at least two children.” (I remember who it was, of course. Now we have been on first-name terms for a long time, and I am very grateful to you for that comment. I know that you will read this text, that’s why I’m addressing you personally). This is such a simple and Christian thought, but for some reason it didn’t occur to me then. And she helped me survive those first days when nothing was clear at all. For what? Why? How so?

It also coincided that in two days it’s my husband’s birthday. And in two more - the day we met him. Life, oddly enough, went on. Of course, we didn’t celebrate either one or the other. Life, love and death. Near.

I was afraid of funerals, but it turned out that it was not scary at all. He was completely different. Peaceful, different from who I remembered him to be. Our eldest is very similar to my husband. And the youngest was a mini me. My nose, my eyes, even my hair were the same as in the photographs of me as a baby. Just as disheveled and long.

Yes. It turned out that death does not only happen to others. She's nearby. She is together with life and together with love. But on the other hand, it doesn’t exist. There is no death as long as we remember and love. After all, love is not just an egoistic thing: “Be there.” Although that too, of course. I want to be physically close. I want to kiss and hug. I want to be happy. Seeing how he begins to roll over, sit up, the first steps... Several of my friends had children around the same time as my youngest. And it was a shame that they had this joy of growing up, but I didn’t. I know this joy.

I am very grateful to God for giving me the strength to rejoice for those acquaintances. I was very afraid that it would hurt, that I would be jealous, that there would be some kind of rejection and reluctance to communicate with those mothers. But that was not the case. I looked and look at the photographs of my youngest son’s peers with pleasure and smile. Wonderful kids. But I know it's not me. This is truly His help.

But there was another joy. Warmth from those near and far. I wrote on social networks and felt that they were worried about me. This support was not just crosses and the words “condolences”, it was really felt.

It's a feeling that people around you care. Even the people who came into contact with me at work care. It was later, when I started writing before he would have turned one year old.

It turned out surprisingly that after his death, my youngest gave me several close people. The same ones who didn’t care at all when I wrote something incomprehensible on Facebook.

So... life goes on. And love. I don’t know what it means to “survive the death of a child.”

It is impossible to “survive” it. It is impossible to remember this calmly. But I know that I can live with this. Live, smile and try to love. Don't forget and try to be grateful. To God, to a little man of three months old and to all those who were and are nearby.

Source: Photosight.ru

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