I had just finished making a friendship bracelet when the train began to slow.The windows reflected the lights of my home city. I couldn’t stop smiling while packing my things. I put the friendship bracelet in my pocket. While making it, I carefully organized the white, brown and black colors in the knots so the ornaments formed eyes, dark brown, like mine.
Some starry night, maybe a month ago, we were laying somewhere in the mountains, exploring each other's pasts. You said, “You know, people have different eyes and you can read those eyes. Yours are dark brown, almost black. Your gaze is always calm and caring, yet serious.
“The paradox is that I always forget the eyes of the people I deeply love. Somehow,I just cannot remember how they look. Others’ eyes, they’re a lot easier to remember.”
Another day, you responded to me, “I‘m sorry. You’re a wonderful person and I really like you, but maybe just as a friend. I don’t know. Sorry.”
The friendship bracelet with my eyes rested in my pocket. I made it for you so you would always remember my eyes and I would never try to hope for more. I smiled, ready for Kyiv to welcome me for the first time since the war began.
You waited for me outside of the train, helped me get the suitcase out, and hugged me. The curfew was about to start, so we ran to our friend who was waiting for us in the car.
As we drove, I thought about how the same and different Kyiv looked. The buildings were the same, the streets painfully familiar. Yet, it was strange that the leaves were green. In my mind, the city froze back in February.
“I’m sorry. The flat is a bit shattered, but we started renovating already and replaced all of the windows,” said our friend, turning the key in the door lock. She let us in, winked at me, and excused herself to “a meeting with her sister.” I had told her I liked you some time ago, so I was both annoyed and pleased by her unexpected disappearance.
We spent all night talking. About everything, as usual. We were sitting in a child’s bedroom, full of toys, family photos, and bullet holes. The signs of war were everywhere. The mirror reflected us with dozens of sharp edges around the holes. Crumpled in the hallway, we tried to ignore the desperate sound of the air-raid alarm. Before getting to sleep, you gave me a small embroidered cat patch you had made for me, and I tied the bracelet around your wrist.
The next morning, we finally got to my home. I left it 7 months ago, on February 24th. As we drove, I captured the anti-tank hedgehogs, sandbags in piles, ruined bridges and burned houses in my mind. It was my home village, and it died. In its place was a burned wound, covered with ashes and grief. I kept catching your stare on my face, trying to scan my feelings.
My home was still standing. I had wondered if I’d cry when I saw it. I didn’t. The green of the trees was too bright. The sky was friendlier than ever. I smiled.I couldn’t believe I was finally home. “Never” became “today.”
We went on a walk. I showed you where I found puppies as a kid, where I rode bicycles with my friends, where my favorite teacher lived. We came to an old hand-made wooden soccer goal tilted under the weight of time. I lay on the grass. You looked at me, smirked, and did the same. We talked a lot, shielding our eyes from the sunlight. As we walked back home, the burnt houses and bomb pits on the road followed us.
We spent the next day in Kyiv center. It was like touching the past, familiar horizons sewing together my past and my present. On the way back, the tram rocked peacefully, carrying us through the sleeping city. My head rested on your shoulder. I was nearly sleeping when I felt your fingers brush lightly through my hair. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to scare you off. You touched my hair, strand by strand, your fingers almost weightless. I kept refusing to let the hope in. I sat there, begging for the moment to never end, while understanding that it surely would..
The next days passed bitterly fast.
We wrote letters to each other. One letter to be read the moment we separated, another in two years, when I would return from the US. We cut a little piece of candle, put it on a teaspoon and melted it with a lighter. You pressed the cooling wax with your pendant, leaving the shape of the small tree on the stamp. We laughed from the sight of the black, slightly-burnt spoon, wondering what my mom would think when she returned. We put our to-be-opened-in-two-years letters in the place only we knew, and signed the box as “Confidential material” with a red crayon.
Our first kiss was not like those in romantic films. We had just finished watching some boring documentary about Eminem. I was too nervous to tell you I wanted to kiss you. Surely you understood, but you waited until I got the courage. You could’ve kissed me first, but you wanted me to do it. You wanted me to be ready. As I sat in front of you, trying to gather my thoughts and make this tiny move, I heard your heartbeat. It was your first kiss, too. I moved forward, my lips brushing yours, and laughed. We tried again.
Back in the bomb shelter in February, blue or yellow stripes were tied around our wrists so that the soldiers would know we were civilians. I got blue. My mom and I made a promise to cut them off only when we returned home.
You and I burned mine. I didn’t want to keep it. I felt your gaze on my face. I didn’t cry. The life “after” started, and it wasn’t worse than “before.”
We soaked in the happiness of the summer, our countdown inevitably ticking.Somewhere under the willow tree, I kept losing to you in chess. On the beach, we dug into a watermelon with plastic spoons, accompanied by the air-raid alarms. Tired, we tried to ride the scooter, me behind you, fingers clenched on the handles, our laughter being carried away by wind.
That night, you wanted to dance with me. We went outside, under the constellations.I kept stumbling as you were teaching me to waltz, but your hands caught me each time. Sometimes, I find that song and try to feel that fresh night air again.
We had six days in sunny August. Nothing more. Sitting in the train, I unfolded your letter. You were looking at me on the other side of the window. I didn’t even try to stop the tears. On the envelope, your words were written: “To the kindest, bravest, the most confident, coolest, and happiest girl in the world.”
You kept your eyes locked on mine until the train left the station.
Resurrection. 512 words.
Sitting on the floor of the railway station, we try to let reality in. In one week,I’ll be half of the globe away. A week ago, when I saw the railway station and my fractured home city for the first time in seven months, I couldn’t believe the next week would tear me out of the cycle of the past, war’s hands burning my days. Present I dreamt of, the present without the war, never existed. But something beautiful does, and it started a week ago.
I look at the clock. We have another 15 minutes. Then at you. You catch my gaze, eyes the color of thunder, dark blue clouds. The chess board is between us, the game going on is meaningless, not only because we don’t have time to finish, but because I never win. My mind shifts to the day I almost did. Under the willow tree, the sun through the leaves, through your fingertips, trying to solve the labyrinth of your hair, adding to the saturation of your iris, leaving threads of shadows between and under your lips. I didn’t really care about chess. I loved to see you concentrated, thoughts whirling in your mind, or maybe in mine? When you looked in my eyes, your gaze was the same - focusing and exploring, catching every shift detail.
I think of the night before. Me in front of you, sitting in the darkness, the only light from the screen of the TV none of us really watched. You were waiting. Sometimes I wonder how well you read my mind. I didn’t even say I wanted to kiss you then. Or maybe you just felt the same? But you wanted me to make the first move. And I did, lips awkwardly brushing against yours, and laughed. And tried again.
You get me from my daydreaming. Seven minutes left. “You remember yesterday I said that I’d give you something, and you promised me you wouldn’t refuse? Turn around.” Your hand touches my hair, brushes it away from my neck. I feel the pendant sliding on my chest. Sometimes I cannot believe so many feelings can be inside the fortress of your calmness.
I asked about the meaning of the pendant, a tiny tree engraved on the silver circle, the first day we met. You said it’s one of the most precious things you have, your family gave it to you, it represented their love. You never took it off, except for the time we wrote our letters.
One letter is in my backpack, the second in yours, two more hidden in my home. Two to be read when we separate, two when I return from the US. We cut a little piece of candle, put it on a teaspoon and melted it with a lighter. You pressed the cooling wax with your pendant, leaving the shape of the small tree on the stamps.
Your pendant is on my chest. My eyes are on you, wide open.
The train approaches. People rush inside the train, like they don’t need those grains of time.
We had six days in sunny August. Nothing more. You are at the other side of the window. I don’t even try to stop the tears. On the envelope, your words are written: “To the kindest, bravest, the most confident, coolest, and happiest girl in the world.”
You keep your eyes locked on mine until the train leaves the station.
Resurrection. 256 words.
We soak in the happiness of the summer, our countdown inevitably ticking.
…In a child’s bedroom, full of toys, family photos, and bullet holes, we spend all night talking, the mirror reflecting us with dozens of sharp edges around the holes.
…In my home village, under the wooden soccer goal, tilted under the weight of time, we’re shielding our eyes from the sunlight, sharing our childhood stories. On the way home, burnt houses and bomb pits follow us.
…Somewhere under the willow tree, I’m losing to you in chess. On the beach, we dig into a watermelon with plastic spoons, accompanied by the air-raid alarms. Tired, we hop on the scooter, me behind you, fingers clenched on handles, our laughter being carried away by wind.
…We write letters to each other. One letter to be read the moment we separate, another in two years, when I return from the US. We cut a little piece of candle, put it on a teaspoon and melt it with a lighter. You press the cooling wax with your pendant, leaving the shape of the small tree on the stamp.
…Outside of my house, under the constellations, you ask me out to dance. I keep stumbling as you’re teaching me to waltz, but your hands catch me each time.
We had six days in sunny August. Nothing more. Sitting in the train, I unfolded your letter. You were looking at me on the other side of the window. I didn’t even try to stop the tears. On the envelope, your words were written: “To the kindest, bravest, the most confident, coolest, and happiest girl in the world.”
You kept your eyes locked on mine until the train left the station.
Resurrection. 128 words.
I’m drowning, drowning
In your eyes.
The time we didn’t have.
Memories like butterflies
In summer leaves.
The tram, the willow tree, the dusting stars,
Night, garden, fingers, quilts,
Street musicians, candles, wax,
Thunder, air alarm, bomb pits.
Watermelon on the sand
and laughter,
My tears--your letter in my hand,
Eyes, and eyes, and leafs’ flutter
The calmness of your gaze.
The beauty is in the despair.
Like dance in the pure darkness
We sealed our feelings
With candle’s fleur
And between our eyes,
Ocean splashes.
Resurrection. 64 words.
If I could choose only one moment from this summer to return to, I would choose that time with you under the willow tree. The sunshine through the leaves, gazes eye-to-eye, and the understanding of the start of something beautiful and nostalgic.
Resurrection. 1 word.
August.
Diana Bilobrova is an 18-years old from Horenka, Ukraine. The full-scale invasion started when she was 16, leaving a painful mark in her memory. Poetry helps Diana to relieve and let go of the traumatizing experience, as well as advocating for Ukrainian victims of war. Diana’s story is one of millions, and that is important to keep in mind.Currently, Diana is a high school senior at Westover School in Connecticut. She plans to take a gap year and volunteer in Ukraine, also studying political and social activism.
"Weeping-WIllow-Tree-at-Boston-Public-Garden-Downtown-Massachusetts" by Captain Kimo is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
