Story 1. Colourful confetti

 
I don't know why, but my memory often returns to one particular childhood memory.
 
It's winter outside. Snowy, fluffy, frosty. I'm still just a child, maybe in first or second grade. The air is filled with the scent of pine needles and tangerines. Adults are rushing around shops, searching for gifts and all sorts of delicious treats. In just a few days, it will be New Year – my favourite holiday. Special. I would even say – the only real Holiday with a capital H.
 
Why, you ask? Because a holiday is, first and foremost, a state, a mood. That feeling of lightness and joyful anticipation. And how all these things help create that mood: the colourful lights, the Christmas tree adorned with glass baubles and shiny tinsel, getting costumes ready for the New Year's carnival, the long holidays, and the fragile, sparkling snowflakes outside the window.
 
Just as winter transforms the earth, making it elegant and calmly majestic, so does New Year transform ordinary human life and bring an element of mystery to it. On New Year's Eve, it's even pleasant to visit shops. The walls are decorated with bright garlands, silver tinsel strands and huge, fluffy snowflakes hang from the ceiling. At such moments, you start to feel like you haven't stepped into a boring shop, familiar down to the last dirty spot on the painted wall, but into a magical, ancient emporium where you can buy anything your heart desires – from an extraordinary, rare trinket to your most cherished dream.
 
I'm sure even adults feel this way. What then of children, whose perception is a hundred times brighter and purer than ours, us adults?
 
So, in that memory, I am a child. The world for me is extraordinary, piercingly clear, and fresh. Winter, with its snow-white fluffy snowdrifts, its thick blue twilight, and its invigorating frosty freshness, is full of secrets and wonders. Ahead of me lie the holidays – a whole 10 days of continuous happiness, filled with sledding down icy hills, rolling in the snow, skiing in the forest, and, of course, trips to the ice rink. And how pleasant it will be to return home after all these adventures – to a house where the elegant Christmas tree shines with lights, and Mum is preparing our favourite treats for our return. To a house where you can watch interesting TV shows as much as you like or spend the rest of the day doing sweet, heart-warming little things – drawing, singing songs, making things out of plasticine, or sticking pretty pictures into an album.
 
And then, New Year's night is over. The guests, presents, laughter, and anticipation of a miracle have all mixed together into a colourful kaleidoscope, frozen with the chime of the clock, fallen asleep right under the tree, and melted away by morning…
 
Today is the first day of the new year. A very calm and quiet day. Everyone is still asleep after the merry festive night. The new day greets us with a snow-white radiance; everything shines – the snow, the faces of the rare passers-by, the very air itself. Fine frosty powder falls silently from the sky, settling on eyelashes, on thin tree branches, and on mittens. We are going to visit Grandma. And Grandma has real treasures in store for us – the most delicious pies in the world, the biggest Christmas tree (from floor to ceiling) with the most wondrous decorations, and the most mysterious little box in the world, full of shiny confetti. But more on that a little later.
 
For now, it's probably worth saying a bit about Grandma's house. This house deserves a separate description, just like Grandma's flat. It might seem like an ordinary five-storey building – what could be special about it? But the thing is, it wasn't just an ordinary five-storey building (if such things even exist in nature) – it was a very nice, cosy little brick house. Not even a house, but a Home. With its own character and mood. A "Model of Good Maintenance". And believe me, the "maintenance" there truly was exemplary, in every sense – in the warm stairwells, even in winter, there were flowers on the windowsills, it smelled of fresh baked goods, and muffled laughter and music came from behind closed doors. But most importantly, the Home stood in such an extraordinary place that it, too, seemed extraordinary. In summer, it was submerged in greenery – trees and bushes reliably protected it from bad weather and prying eyes. In winter, it was wrapped up to its very window-eyes in a snowy fur coat.
 
In the evenings, yellow glass lanterns would light up above the entrances. The Home would grow kinder and settle down, waiting for its residents to return.
 
And nearby, just a stone's throw away, ran a railway line, along which trains passed continuously – rumbling goods trains, passenger trains smelling of smoke and distant travels, and fast, ringing commuter trains. And only the Home stood unshakably at this noisy crossroads, nodding importantly to the passing trains that greeted it with loud, long whistles.
 
I always thought that in such a special house, the flats themselves must also be special. And Grandma's flat fully lived up to that. It was a small two-room flat, what they now call a "Khrushchyovka". But I don't really like that name because of its slightly dismissive tone. Actually, "Khrushchyovkas" are very nice, cosy little flats, and their size plays an important part here – it's much easier to keep order in a small dwelling than to make a huge space feel homely.
 
Grandma's flat was just like that – miniature, nice, and cosy, and also mysterious. From the tiny, brightly lit hallway, you'd immediately step into the dark depths of the living room, and the first thing to greet you was an ancient, massive wardrobe with carved, curled horns. It would sternly survey all the guests, as if weighing up whether to let them into the mysterious living room at all. If the wardrobe gave its permission, the next to scrutinise the guest was the table – round, resting on a thick, four-toed leg that looked more like a tree trunk. A generous guest was welcome, and it was also happy to see children, who loved to hide from the adults on its four-toed paw and braid the hanging tablecloth fringe. For as long as I can remember, there was nothing more fun for us kids than hiding under the table and, quite literally, getting under the feet of the adults sitting sedately around it. The sofa standing nearby would just smile condescendingly, observing the joyful childish commotion under the table, but wouldn't voice its opinion. It was a very wise sofa. It would creak contentedly only when Grandad sat on it. I think the sofa loved Grandad more than any other family member. It even allowed him to doze sitting up, not lying down. The sofa never allowed anyone else such liberties.
 
 
Once a year, on New Year's Eve, the dressing table would meet its best friend, the Christmas tree, and then real miracles would start happening in the room and to us. On that wonderful day, the Christmas tree would appear right next to the dressing table, growing from a cotton-wool snowdrift by the window. At the foot of the tree would appear huge, half-metre tall figures of Father Frost and the Snow Maiden, in blue fur coats and hats trimmed with white fur. From them, two soft, dark burgundy carpet runners would spread across the parquet floor. One led to the stern Wardrobe, and the other went into the bedroom.
 
When the tree was lit, you had to be very careful to step only on these runners, otherwise you could easily get lost in a dense winter forest. For those who did happen to get lost, the tree would turn on its garlands of colourful, twinkling lights, which stretched from its top across the ceiling of the room, helping the inexperienced little wanderers find their way. After wandering through the magical forest in the company of Father Frost and the Snow Maiden and getting thoroughly chilled, they could finally find their way home, following the tree's signal lights. And only then would the tree allow them to come close and see the real miracle – glass beads, huge, transparent, soft-pink baubles with tinsel inside, little carved towers, houses, swings, pinecones, icicles, and hares made of the finest coloured glass. They weren't just decorations. They were whole worlds, into which, if you were very lucky, you could briefly enter. But for that, you first had to become friends with the dressing table and beg Grandma for the magical little box of colourful confetti. Without their help, it was impossible to open the entrance to the worlds that existed within the tree.
 
And now, the cherished little box is in my hands. Grandma, under the pretext of making tea, has been sent off to the kitchen. I carefully open the little box and pour its contents out in front of the dressing table. I take out one of the shining confetti circles and, looking at my reflection in the mirror, cheeks flushed with excitement, I stick it on my forehead between my eyebrows. Now I look like an Indian princess, which means anything can happen to me. The room slowly fills with shining lights, the mirrored surface trembles – the door is about to open. The last step is easy – I take a handful of confetti from the dressing table and, staring intently at the tree, cover myself from head to toe with colourful glitter. The magic has happened! The Christmas tree, with its fairytale decorations, has come to life. Now, as I choose, I can enter any of its wonderful worlds, inhabited by mythical creatures. I am one of them now. Now I can effortlessly swing on the glass swings, live in the glass house, and make friends with the glass hares. I can go inside a transparent pink bauble and from there look out, as if into the unknown, at our room, at myself, at Grandma with the tea. I can listen to what the wind is singing outside and sing along with it. I can dance in round dances with the snowflakes. And when I get tired, I can return through the open window vent, see the glow of the colourful lights in the window, find myself back on the floor under the tree amidst the scattered glitter of confetti, and go to the kitchen to drink tea with lemon and Grandma's most delicious pies.