It was a mixture of "good old times", characters encountered during these nine years of my life met together in one place - my gimnazjum. I don't know how old I was that night. I'm pretty sure I was twenty-two and I wasn't surprised at all that I sit in one desk with 7-year old Józek or talk with 15-year old Anka. Everything had its own place.
We (not sure - who? the class from the primary school or one of the two from gimnazjum?) gathered in one classroom. When we settled down, the teacher started to speak. She was standing right in front of me - a tall woman of nice motherly face. There was some dignifying beauty in her - maybe her voice made it (I still remember its warmth), maybe her posture or sadness. I knew she died six years ago. Nonetheless, I wasn't scared or astonished. I was happy to see her.
She wanted to see us and talk about someone who passed away. She had a friend who lost her friend and suffered. Funny thing... she was talking about Mrs. Zofia who lost... her. She was telling us the story of the lost friend - about her rebellious daugher who had harmed many people, her illness and all the people who didn't remember about her. Indeed, no-one realised she was telling her own story, no-one uttered "good to see you, how are the matters up there?". I saw sorrow and bitterness in her eyes.
The lesson was over, everyone left. A new group replaced the previous one. I looked at the students. I was sure they would laugh at me, they wouldn't understand. I walked up to the teacher and embranced her warmly. She thanked. "You are so different from them. You've always been." - she said. "I know. Unfortunately, I am".
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