I am already quite a few years old, but I am still afraid to communicate with strangers, especially women. And the reason for this lies in early childhood.
I was 14 years old when a story happened that I remember as if it were yesterday. My older sister and I picked blueberries in the forest, filled baskets full, and added more to the mugs to have a snack before the return trip. We never went far from home, our forests are generous. On the path leading to the house was an old fallen tree, which the blueberry pickers used for recreation.
I remember that it was hot, we sat down on a tree, untied our scarves, got out water and bread. As soon as we began to eat, we see that a still not old woman comes up to us, also with a basket, and sits down a little further away. Of course, they greeted her, they even offered her water.
She refused, and then came closer, looked into my basket and said: “Well done. I got a lot. The mother will cook compote for the funeral. My sister and I were speechless, and she picked up her basket and went towards the forest.
I was so scared that I even cried all the way. But at home everything was in order, I gradually calmed down. The blueberries were taken to the cellar, this is a strong berry, left for later. And in the morning the collective farm foreman came running and said that our father had been trampled by a bull and taken to the hospital.
It was then that this woman again surfaced before her eyes with her terrible prophecy. Mom went to the hospital to see my father, but I already guessed that the irreparable would happen, although the doctors said that maybe she would survive. No, my father died on the evening of the same day.
What happened to me and my sister is beyond description. We dumped the blueberries into the ditch and trampled them underfoot. And then, after the funeral, my mother's sister brought blueberry juice to the memorial table anyway. And so it happened, as the stranger said, albeit not in details, but it was so.
And it’s completely incomprehensible - after some time, blueberry bushes grew on my father’s grave, although our cemetery is in an open place and the forest is far away. My sister and I also tore them out and threw them away. This woman was never seen again, and mother was not told anything about her either. But I still regret that I have not thrown the berries out there, in the forest …
Promotional video:
Rimma Omelchenko, Novosibirsk region