Роковини*.

A month has passed since I returned from Ukraine.

Mr. Halifax gradually transformed his appearance from the summer touristy vibe to autumn's elegant charm. The plump school buses were replaced by RVs on the roads, as Canadians love to travel across the country, especially in the summer through Nova Scotia.

If by chance you find yourself in Canada and can't figure out what month it is, you can always glance at the front doors of homes. By the wreath on the door, you can tell the holidays, the seasons, and even the residents' moods.

In autumn, these local, unspoken calendar markers turn into wreaths of multicolored leaves, pinecones, and pumpkins.

From Ukraine, packages filled with my dearest belongings arrived at my doorstep, one after another. Smiling couriers knocked at our door, asking for signatures, and when leaving, they waved goodbye to me like family, knowing they would soon deliver another long-awaited box. I carried each package like a treasure to the deck, sitting on the floor to unpack it with bated breath, as if I didn’t know what I had sent to myself from home. And each time, it felt more thrilling than finding a real treasure chest filled with gold.

I could never get enough of time with the kids. We spent more time together than usual. One day, I even gave them a small holiday, letting each of them skip school.

One such day, Platon and I decided to take a walk around a small lake near our house.

Cranberry Lake lies between a residential area and a busy highway, but the vegetation around it is so dense, and the lake itself is in a small depression, that when you walk there, it feels like you're in a wild forest. The trees are large, branching, intertwining even with the thinnest of branches, like threads of a fine yet sturdy chainmail.

The narrow, winding path doesn't go along the shore, but much higher up, above the lake. The branches weave into a dense green canopy above your head, encircling you from all sides.

I didn’t consider that by four in the afternoon, it was already getting dark quickly, and by the time we entered the thickest part of the woods, it suddenly became pitch black.

We were walking hand in hand along the path, which was almost impossible to see in complete darkness. We continued talking about Roblox, Legos, and what Platon wanted for his birthday. It was not only dark but strangely silent. And of course, according to the laws of the universe, there was not a single runner or dog walker behind or ahead of us. I asked Platon even more questions, pretending to be interested in all the details of the school events and how they spent their time while I was away. I held his hand and carefully pretended everything was fine. But Platon is no fool. As I babbled on and occasionally turned my head, he suddenly asked, as if it were nothing:

"Mom, doesn’t it seem like it got dark really fast? And why do you keep turning around?"

"I’m not turning around... everything’s fine."

Slightly quickening the pace, we continued our conversation, and I did my best not to show that I was scared.

Just as suddenly as it got dark, an immense, irrational fear crashed down on me. Something could happen now, and I was alone with my child in the woods in complete darkness.

A chill ran down my spine, my mouth went dry, my palms became sweaty, and my heart was racing. And all of this with no apparent reason. While Platon was talking, I kept telling myself that it was safe here, that crimes rarely happen, and that we would soon be out of the woods and onto a well-lit street.

But the path wasn’t ending.

I knew that just ahead, it dipped into a hollow where it would be even darker.

The only thing that somewhat calmed me was that my son wasn’t worried at all. It was clear that his inner belief, "With mom, I’m safe," was doing its job as a solid anchor and unconditional support.

The path twisted and turned.

From the dense forest, the smell of marijuana wafted toward us. I felt so horrified that my brain started recalling hand-to-hand combat moves I had never practiced. It felt like I was being overwhelmed by the same feeling I had tried to escape every night while in Ukraine when I was trying to fell asleep in my bathtub**. That feeling of overwhelming anxiety when, just as you start to doze off, the air raid siren blares, and then you jolt awake from its "all-clear" signal.

We walked along this endless dark path, and my psyche drowned in an irrational, primal fear that I tried to suppress, not letting my son sense it.

Then, suddenly, from the left, we heard a rustle. Instinctively stopping, I slowly pulled Platon behind me. My eyes, adjusted to the darkness, detected every movement and shape. The rustle grew louder, then softer.

And we stood there, motionless.

My son, though curious, now looked cautiously over my shoulder and whispered,

"Mom, there’s someone there..."

In an instant, my panic dssappeared. My mind became crystal clear, and my state of mind calm and collected, as though the space had quickly cleared after a storm.

I returned to the state of the first days of the war when, on our long escape, I became one with my car, hatred, anger, and fury. It was from that heavy mixture that a new, unknown strength was born within me.

The certainty that I would do anything to protect my child became absolute, and the knowledge that I was capable of anything for his safety became the only compass, making everything else lose its significance.

The rustling grew louder and came closer. Slowly, carefully weaving through the thick branches, a large deer appeared on the path.

Mom, it’s a deer! Let’s take a picture!"

Platon’s words sounded muffled, like from a fog.

Stumbling, cursing, and retreating, my mind awkwardly began to shift from "fight" to "relax." My armor fell, my fists loosened, and my jaw unclenched…

While my child looked at the deer with undisguised joy, not understanding why I was standing rooted to the spot and silent, I mentally swept away the wild demons that had broken loose inside me.

I wiped the sweat from my brow.

Meanwhile, the deer looked at us, confused, as if asking, "What are you standing there for, where’s the food?" Then it picked something up from the ground, catching branches with its antlers, and continued to observe us.

It didn’t leave until we decided to go home. And why should it leave? We were on its territory, not the other way around.

Three years since I left home, never to return.

Three years since I’ve been walking through this dark forest in pitch blackness with no hope of an exit.

Three years since the fierce, brave demons born from the cold, icy terror of war have lived inside me.

February 24, 2025.

*Commemoration.

** Many people in Ukraine are currently sleeping in bathtubs to protect themselves from shrapnel from falling Russian missiles.