Marianna and I are at a summer retreat.
I am five years old. I have a wooden recorder
with me, a block-flute. I blow out melodies.
My parents left – they have some urgent matters.
What urgent matters could there be during the summer?
I play my flute. Igor is here with us.
He is a genius, a chess prodigy who has won
chess games against the former world champions.
He is my brother, and he has very long legs.
When Igor walks, I must run after him like a dog.
I quickly get tired. Igor puts me on his shoulders.
I imagine myself as an eagle, a stormy petrel, a seagull.
Igor runs; I fly after him – I am the wind.
The wind plays the flute. Grownups lie.
I know – my grandma, Musenka, is dead.
That’s why my parents left.
I will never see her again. Ne-ver.
“Iga, do you know?” I ask, landing my flight.
“No,” he answers seriously.
Igor is almost an adult. Grownups lie.
(He Knows)