On All Souls' Day I lay on the rug and looked at the photographs from the bottom drawer. It held days mixed up in different poses: boats on the shore of the Trockie Lake, Canadian snow, Sowiniec from before the last war, a cup on the kitchen table near the window.
In almost all the pictures I stood in the company of the dead, together we watched solemnly the glassy surfaces of some unknown place or I smiled at them, and they patted me on the head, embraced me as if they didn't know ...