This morning I met Georgi at our entry.
He’s a tall wirey man with the thick rimmed glasses every retired Bulgarian man seems to wear. He had a light green windbreaker pulled over his boney shoulders and well ironed brown slacks that stopped shy of his angle, giving the black rubber galoshes he wore the freedom to be muddy.
I held the door open as he approached, dragging along two large wooden handled steel ended instruments. They looked heavy and as if they had just come from the village, the wood curves of their handles shiny with wear, and the ends still with traces of fresh soil on them. He smiles at me and I introduce myself.
“I had a daughter, she was skinny, like you.” He motions to what I think is toward my face, but I follow his glassy eyes and look behind me. On the bulletin board directly behind my head is a nekrologue. A poster commemorating the loss of a loved one. This one says:
“In loving memory, 3 months since we lost..” I study the picture, the woman looks rather young, only three months ago, I turn back to him.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“She was a beautiful person, I was just cleaning her grave.” He motions at the tools, then looks back up at the nekrologue, and back at me.
“She was skinny, like you.” He smiles.
I wish him a nice day and watch him brush the soil off the tools and bring them up the stairs to the first floor and he, with the tools disappear into the apartment.