Where the dreams are born...
They met in spring... One more trivial story, you'd say. Then I would answer: not for me. But maybe for you as well? It might seem naive unless you're involved in these "trivialities" yourself, which are so simple, but so touchingly nice. Now you may have your own story to tell. But let me first tell you mine. My story, a part of my life .
They met in spring. There was a lot of snow that morning, it sparkled in the sun's rays as the clouds vanished slowly and a mild warm wind blew, carrying the unforgettable scent of spring. The snow melted behind the window and the water streamed down the street, when she suddenly said to him: "I bet you don't know what my name is," and he replied: "To tell the truth, I don't." They have already seen each other before, but now they wandered through the town together, telling each other about their childhoods, and the trees smiled at them, yet without leaves, reflecting in the puddles with the clear blue sky in the background. And the sun rolled unnoticed through that sky as the time went by, flooding all the corners of the streets and blocks with the sunlight. It seemed to them that there was no such a spring before and maybe even after this strange feeling, that has never come back.
It has never happened to them again. It was unique, impossible to compare with anything else. Later, he searched this feeling as an addict, this sweet pain, this flight of a soul, a wonderful dream, but ... ... but perhaps any other spring was for someone else, and not for him any more. And she was always in his memory, wearing her flowery summer dress, and that spring ...
And back to Earth, into those years
To run along the streets and chase
To breathe the air of summer night,
To look into her eyes again
.They are far away from each other now, but some nights in their dreams they meet at the river banks where they hold their hands in the moonlight and where time stands still - in their small paradise existing only in their minds . Where the calendar always shows '1997'.
by Ilia Nedogreev