Michal Ruzhzhe-Khanovich
The first sign of summer and the holidays was a large suitcase, taken down from the overhead cupboard and ceremoniously placed in the middle of the room.
The suitcase snorted dust, and everyone around it sneezed. It seemed that no one in the house was more important than it. Little by little, it was filled to the brim, and then came the attempt to fasten it. The suitcase groaned, rocked from side to side, and its locks sprang open before they had even closed. Then she would be called out of her room and asked to sit on the suitcase.
Soon a taxi arrived, and with an effortless movement the driver lifted the suitcase and tossed it into the trunk. Grandma sat in the front seat with an old pitcher and basin on her lap. This inseparable pair was already many years old, and the white enamel had chipped away in places. Yet for some reason they alone were honored with a ride on Grandma's lap, rather than being packed tightly into the stuffy trunk.
Several times she secretly peered inside the pitcher, hoping to discover some treasure, but found nothing there except an echo.
On arriving at the country house, the first thing Grandma did was set the pitcher and basin on the bedside table. Every evening before going to sleep, she filled the pitcher with clean water, but first inspected it on all sides to make sure it had neither a crack nor a chip.
One day she could no longer resist asking Grandma why she washed her hands beside the bed, using the pitcher. Was it because getting up was difficult for her?
Grandma sat her on her lap and said: “You know, every morning the soul returns to us from above, perfectly clean, as good as new.” Laughing, she added that this was probably why she had trouble waking up and was cranky. “And I want my body, which receives it, to be just as clean and whole.
That is why the pitcher from which I take the water that cleanses me must also be whole.”