Friday begins, mom's having some of her most obnoxious friends over for Easter. I'm in my room, desperately trying to get drunk off overly expensive eggnog while they're downstairs giving CPR to the early 70s. The smell of pot and Sangria intoxicates my whole system, tomorrow I have to break out of this cocoon, this sarcophagus over times well spent, then frozen and eventually lost. Even Chernobyl must be a better place than this, 25 years on, at least a more quiet one apart from the mutated birds singing for the dead.
I imagine spring flowers withering in the radioactive Ukrainian air, slowly languishing while nobody's watching. And I think of mother and her friends, fading in the very same way, except they always have an audience. The only question is: do they dare look at themselves in the mirror and face the aparent decay of their once so pretty and youthful features?
Judging by the way they're drinking, I guess not.
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