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Bambus was two years old when my mother brought from the hospital a tiny white bundle. Happy and cheerful father said: This is your brother, love him. The brother was unwrapped and put on the blanket on the carpet on the floor. He was sleeping, and Bambus was sitting next to him. So did it specially to make it easier for Bambus to look after his brother. 

Mom left the room and warned that Bambus would drive away the flies, and if the brother wakes up, then he called his mother. Bambus was filled with a feeling of love for the brother, he tenderly touched the fragile fingers of the baby. The brother woke up, and Bambus unexpectedly kissed several fingers for himself, and then suddenly bitten one. 

The brother rolled up and turned blue. My mother came running, picked up her hands and began to calm her brother. "What happened," she asked. Bambus replied that he did not know, he did not touch his brother. Mom saw the trail of Bambus's teeth on her brother's finger. She several times struck Bambous very hard. The father who came running took Bambus in an armful and carried him to his grandmothers. 

Bambus was very much in tears of fear and pain, and his grandmothers calmed him and repaired him with cold water. When my mother came in, they severely chastised her for her lack of restraint. She cried and herself apologized to Bambus, caressed him, and Bambus forgave her. The grandmothers then explained to Bambous that the brother was "born in a shirt", which is bad, and he was also nearly strangled by the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. 

Bambus did not understand anything, but he caught the point: his brother was ill, and so his mother was trembling over him. Bambus stoically transferred the fact of his return to kindergarten, and almost complete forgetting his parents. My brother rolled up, my mother did not leave hospitals, my father stopped going on business trips and took Bambus with him-he needed a home. My father worked for heavy trucks, and Bambus traveled with him half a country. Several times a day his father put him to the helm and "let him steer." 

To cure my brother, two years later my father moved to GAZ-53 for a month, took a business trip to a village for 700 km from the house. There, 100 km from his mother's house, grandmother of Bambus, lived a grandmother-Tatar who could talk children. The management of the motor depot and grandmother's village went to meet, t. his father was a deputy of the City Council and the leader of production. Bambus saw a beautiful deputy badge on his father's jacket and saw his photo at the carpool when his father took him with him.

 All this was explained to him by his mother, having justified his departure for a month: her, fathers and brother. GAZ-53 is suitable for the village, the father will carry the necessary cargo there. They will live at my grandmother's. And most importantly: the father will bring-bring my mother and brother to that grandmother-Tatar for treatment. For Bambus, the parents, grandfather and grandmother who came to stay with their mothers will be watching. Bambus cried secretly, but hysterics did not suit, knowing that the brother must be cured. 

The next day, Bambus was taken to the kindergarten by his grandmother-parents and his brother left early in the morning while Bambus was still asleep. I will say at once in advance: in a month Bambus finally waited for the return of his parents and already a healthy brother. The old woman-Tatar cured by reading prayers in non-Russian language, talking bread and raisins, which my mother then fed her brother. Many years later, Bambus came to the grave of the brother two months after his death. He tidied the ground with a shovel, fell over the fence, the grave and the cross. Everything took about twenty minutes. 

Then Bambus took out a thermos with a very strong black tea, which my brother loved so much during his lifetime. Poured a little in the lid of the thermos, part of it was poured onto the grave. Dry summer land greedily absorbed tea. Bambus sat down and aloud reminded his brother that episode with a bite, apologized. Gradually, Bambus finished his cup, talking all the time with his brother lying in the grave, and pouring on it from the thermos. Bambus did not cry, because it is not good for a man to cry on graves and disturb the dead. My brother, of course, did not answer, because the dead do not speak, and they are no longer in our world at all. 

But Bambus still spoke aloud, as if his brother were listening to him. He always told only that which encouraged and amused his brother. Finishing his tea, Bambus said goodbye and left. Only when he arrived home, Bambus fell to the floor and sobbed like a woman. Well, let it be, because no one saw this. 

Previously, Bambus did not cry almost never, from the age of ten. Probably, the reserves of tears accumulated and demanded an exit. Although no, before there was simply no significant reason. There was no reason before Bambus could cry, except from physical pain, for example during an operation without anesthesia.