I remember I was about two years old, I was walking with my grandmother near our house, and suddenly there were flowers. There are many of them, they are multicolored: white, pink, red, yellow, I lean close to them to examine each vein, to inhale this smell — sweet, lively, my first scent of beauty in my life. Grandma is standing next to me. I don’t remember her face, just her hands, just her warmth. And these flowers.
They say that if you tie a house made of grandmother’s squares, the souls of all the women of the family will move into it. Its threads are silence. White is pure thoughts, gray is everyday life and worries, and dark is the night when the light is brightest.
In the first window there is a Girl who keeps Dreams.
In the second, there is a Woman who keeps Her Love.
In the third, there is a Mother who preserves Wisdom.
And in the fourth window, the Flower of the Genus blooms — a sign that the memory is alive, and the house will never be empty. And even when the lights go out in the house, the stars in the windows continue to shine. Because the memory of generations is monochrome only on the outside, but inside it burns with gold.