Grandmother
The grandmother is extremely elderly, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is fairly white, yet her eyes are like two stars, and when they glance at you, they have a pleasant, gentle expression in them, which is lovely. She is clothed in a beautiful silk dress with enormous flowers sewn on it that rustles as she walks. And she can tell the most incredible tales. Grandmother knows a lot since she lived before father and mother—that much is obvious. She has a hymn book with huge silver clasps that she frequently reads. And there is a rose in the book, between the leaves, pretty flat and dry; it is not as attractive as the roses in the glass, but she smiles sweetly at it, and tears well up in her eyes.
"I'm curious why grandmother stares at the faded flower in the old book in that manner? Do you have any idea?" Why, when grandmother's tears drop on the rose while she gazes at it, the rose comes to life and fills the room with its scent․ The walls disappear like mist, and all around her is an enchanting green grove, where sunshine pours through dense vegetation in summer. Oh, grandmother, why is she young again, a gorgeous maiden as fresh as a rose, with round, pink-colored cheeks, fair, sparkling ringlets, and a delicate and elegant figure? But her eyes, those kind, saintly eyes, remain the same—they've been passed down from grandmother. A young man, tall and powerful, sits by her side; he hands her a rose, and she smiles. Grandmother can no longer smile like that. Yes, she is smiling at the remembrance of that day and many recollections of the past, but the lovely young guy is gone, and the rose in the old book has faded. So, Grandmother, now again an old woman, is seated there, staring at the withered rose in the book.
Grandmother is no longer alive. She'd been sitting in her armchair, telling us a long, lovely story. When she was done, she said she felt tired and leaned back to sleep for a bit. As she slept, we could hear her slow breathing becoming quieter and calmer, and her face radiated delight and tranquility. It seemed as if it had been lighted by a ray of sunlight. Grandmother smiled once again, and then they said she was dead. She was put in a black coffin, and although her eyes were closed, she looked peaceful and beautiful in the white folds of the veiled linen. But every wrinkle was erased, her hair was white and gleaming, and a charming smile hovered around her lips. We were not terrified of looking at her body, who had been such a wonderful, good grandmother. The hymn-book, in which the rose still rested, was put beneath her head, as she had requested, and Grandmother was buried.
They planted a rose tree near the grave, close to the graveyard wall; it quickly grew full of roses, and the nightingale sat amid the flowers, singing over the tomb. The melody and words of the lovely psalms, written in the old book under the dead one's head, rang out from the church organ.
The moon shined down on the cemetery, but the dead were not there; any child, even at night, might walk securely and take a rose from the tree beside the churchyard wall. Those who have passed away know more than those of us alive today. They realize how terrified we would be if anything as odd as the presence of a dead person among us occurred. They have it better than we do; the dead no longer return. The soil has been heaped on the coffin, and only earth lays within it. The hymn-book leaves have turned into dust, and the rose, with all its memories, has fallen to dust as well. But new flowers blossom over the grave, the nightingale sings, and the organ plays, and there is still a reminiscence of old grandmother, with the kind, soft eyes that always seemed youthful. Eyes are immortal. Ours will see beautiful grandmother again, as young and charming as the first time she kissed the fresh, red rose that is just dust in the grave now.
