Which way a soul does fly away

I found granny Czesia cottage when I came first time to Wolimierz. It was the farthermost house in the village. Remote,  abandoned, partly devastated but still having its spirit  inside. It greeted me with a wide-open window. Step by step, month by month I came there and documented every smallest breath of the cottage, more and more subdued and fading. I also started my search for granny Czesia memories among the village people. Always lonely, religious and reconciled with her simple and austere life she insisted to be noticed a couple of years after her death. Her soul was  weakening with every  broken window, with every holy picture torn off  the walls. I used to get some gifts from her: once it was the last picture with Holy Mary left on the window, then it was a a Christmas tree ball in a shape of red heart found on a pile of old worn-out stuff. On one Halloween a song started obsessing me.  I’m sure it was about her. And hope I was the one who managed to grasp her soul before it flew away from her agonic home.

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