The Procession by Ivana Samoilenko

They walked heavily, sinking their feet into the mud
as if that would somehow slow down their procession. The rain poured inspiringly, so their wet clothes rubbed uncomfortably against their bodies. Nobody gave it much thought. The old man was glad it rained, as it hid away his bitter tears.
“How old are you?”- asked a tiny, tender voice.
Carefully, the man lowered his head to see a delicate young boy with soulful blue eyes. The old man wondered what the boy could have become: a pianist, perhaps, with those thin, tender fingers, or a famous actor whom girls would go crazy over. He was about eight, or nine. It was hard to tell, being so old. The old man had never a complexion for the fine arts. He was a simple man, yet he always held his protruding nose high and wore his beard proudly. He looked around to see whether it was safe to answer.
“Hush now, young man, you`ll cause trouble for yourself,” – he quieted the boy.
“You just won`t tell me because you don`t remember”- the boy grinned, revealing all of his milk-tooth gaps. The old man smiled back, the first time in a while.
“Well I do remember, actually, in a week I would turn eighty-four”- the old man said in a quiet, careful manner. The boy widened his eyes in sincere revelation.
“How does it feel to be so old?”
The old man stopped smiling. His face clouded up with grief. He knew the boy will probably never grow old.
“It`s like being a tree. You feel rooted in the ground, so your home, your usual things become more important to you. And you feel calm, and at the same time, you always worry about your offspring. You want them to also grow deep roots, and they seem to get carried away with each blow of the wind. If you`re lucky, you grow wise, and you learn to observe and understand. Or, sometimes, you just grow stupid and grouchy.”
The old man realized he was answering himself, as the boy was preoccupied with his game of avoiding mud puddles. He seemed oblivious to what was inevitably waiting for them at the end of the walk.
“If I step into a mud puddle, it will eat me”- the boy explained joyfully, engrossed in his game, “but don`t worry, it doesn`t eat old people”. He looked up at the old man reassuringly.
“Quiet!”- a harsh, ruthless voice shouted. They walked in silence, lowering their heads. And then they stopped.
“Line up”.
 The rain mourned them, washing down their tears. The unbearable silence made the brute voice sound inhuman.
“You, you, you…”
Then, the officer stopped in front of the old man. There was a second when they stood face-to-face, studying each other. Almost on equal terms. The officer was a young, blond man with soft features. He seemed tense, and as the old man glanced into his face, he saw fear.
“You. Unfit.”- the officer said almost indifferently.
Then there was a rough push on the old man`s back, and he walked obediently, but proudly towards the Chamber of death.
“Shalom,” the man said.