Starting Again
Marek went home.
He sat at his grandfather's kitchen table that evening, with a glass of milk and his grandmother's biscuits, and he told them.
His grandfather was very quiet for a long time. Then he said: "I always wondered."
His grandmother said: "Why didn't your father tell you?"
"He died very suddenly," said Marek's grandfather. "I was nine. He probably planned to tell me when I was older. He never got to."
There was a longer silence.
"I will start again," said Marek's grandfather. "I am sorry I missed eighty-three years. I did not know."
But Marek shook his head, very slowly.
"Granddad, you are seventy-eight. You can't sit on the field-edge in winter."
"I will manage."
"I'd like to do it. Most of the time. You can come on the warm days."
His grandfather looked at him. He did not argue. He nodded.
The next morning, Marek began.
He took bread, every day, from his grandmother's kitchen. He sat in front of the door. He spoke. He told the door what was happening in the village, in the country, in the world. He told it about his school. About the football team. About a dispute over a fence between two neighbours. About a baby who had been born in the next hamlet.
The cold around the keyhole eased.
The thorns of the hawthorn around the door, which had been quietly tightening, loosened.
After a year, Marek's grandfather said: "We are doing well. The agreement is