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The forest is flooded with the May pre-holiday sun. Around the chirping of birds, and I'm going with my daughter - she's only ten years old. She keeps telling me all the time. Her voice murmurs like a trickle.

It's hard to understand what she's talking about... Yes, it does not matter to me: it's important that her stories are a bright, sparkling, childish kaleidoscope, where there's a boot caught in a mud puddle and not somewhere, but in our garden; and little brother, trying to free him with a shovel.

And her unusually charming laughter at the recollection of this picture: how, on Easter, she and her children walked around the courtyards and gathered the gift, and not the egg with eggs, but also candy... And she told me what they are, these candies are different: it's heard something about the sugar cockerel, and then suddenly the question: "Are not we lost, Dad?"

In her pigtails, a ribbon of St. George is braided, she laughs and everything is babbling and babbling. And I just hear a peaceful childhood, I see and understand - what it is!

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