The Angel over the Cliff

He died in battle, and she stood over the cliff, the fresh wind striking her face so hard it seemed to want to wake her. Below, the river rushed. Far off, between the fields, the evening was burning down. - If I step forward, you'll catch me, won't you, Yaroslav? - she asked. The wind at once tugged her hair upward. And for a moment it seemed to her - no, she knew - that it was he who had touched her hair.

Yaroslav had died three weeks ago. His boots still stood in the house. On the bench lay a shirt she hadn't washed, because his smell still lived in the collar - smoke, grass and a little iron. People said: - He is with God now. She wanted to believe it too. Because God certainly exists. And Yaroslav was good. But good people kill too, when war comes to their home.

"He shot at people," she said to the wind. "So did God let him in?" The wind brought the smell of wet earth and young leaves. Yaroslav would once have answered simply: - I stood between you and them, a wall of bullets, blood and my own body. And I fell there so that not one of them would reach you alive, my love. She closed her eyes. He stood before her again - unshaven, worn out, with hands that smelled of tobacco and apples.

The same apples he peeled so carefully every evening, because he knew she didn't like the skin. Before he left, he held her a long time by the gate. - Don't see me off with your eyes, - he asked. - If you do, I won't be able to go. - Then how should I see you off? - With a smile, my love. And live as if I've just been held up and I'm about to come back - terribly hungry, as always. She laughed and promised to cook the best borshch.

Now the borshch had been standing in the cold stove for 7 days. And Yaroslav did not come back, not even in her dreams. She stepped closer to the edge. Pebbles spilled down and took a long time to touch the water. - You're an angel now, - she whispered. - You must have wings. You'll catch me. I know it for certain. The wind struck her in the chest - sharply, almost furiously. Just the way Yaroslav had once shoved her away from the road when a horse came flying at them.

She had fallen into the grass, and afterwards he had kissed her scratched palms over and over. - You died to protect me, - she said. - Protect me once more. From below came the lonely cry of a bird. And for one short moment it seemed to her that Yaroslav answered: - From whom? She closed her eyes. - From the pain, my dear. And from myself. And then she wept - through her poured the tears of the whole life they were meant to live together.

Louder than she had ever allowed herself in front of people. She wept choking, breaking in two - the grief locked inside for weeks came flooding out. She remembered his last letter. "It's cold here. But when I'm freezing, I squeeze your ribbon in my pocket. It still smells of you - and that means of home. My home is you. I don't know if God still looks at us. But when I get scared, I think He looks through your eyes. And then I hold on."

Back then she hadn't understood those words. Now the wind was drying the tears on her cheeks, and suddenly a thought came to her: if Yaroslav is with God now, then maybe they are looking at her together? Or maybe from now on God looks at her through his eyes. - Do you want me to come? - she asked. The wind suddenly fell still. It grew so quiet that she could hear her own heart. It beat unevenly, painfully, but it beat. And in that silence Yaroslav's voice came back to her:

- I already stood between you and death once. Don't make me do it again from a place where my hands can't reach you. Don't call her, my love. I will shout so loudly that death won't hear you calling her. She opened her eyes. On the ground by her foot lay a small white feather. She picked it up. - So you won't catch me? The wind struck her chest - once more, harder. It pushed her away from the cliff. She stepped back a pace.

Memories flickered before her eyes: his first look, her clumsy but oh-so-sincere smile, the apples without their skins. Love doesn't stretch out its hands to take you to itself - it pushes you back with all its strength: into the pain, into the empty house, into the morning you could scream rather than face. A life shattered to pieces is still a life. He died so that she would stay.

She sat down in the grass and watched for a long time as the river darkened. - And how am I to live without you? His laughter sounded in her head: - Badly. Very badly at first. - And then? - Then you'll learn to carry me not as a stone on your heart, but as warmth in your soul. She pressed the feather to her lips. This time, that was enough.

She walked home slowly. The wind beat at her face, tangled her hair, crept under her collar. Alive, cold, unbearable. By the door she saw Yaroslav's boots and, for the first time, did not fall to her knees before them. She only said: - I didn't rise up to you, my love. Forgive me, please. The wind played in the windowpanes. And it seemed as if someone who had been afraid to breathe all this time had finally breathed out.

She lit a fire in the stove and poured out the old borshch. Then she cooked a new one. Not much. Just for herself. They say angels catch those who fall. I don't know. She never did see an angel. But of one thing I am certain: the dead who truly loved us do not stretch out their hands from the darkness. They hold us on this side with all their strength.

Remember this - true love does not call you into the grave. It leaves a place beside it for flowers. And it leaves the living the right to wake one morning out of grief and want to live again.