aiThis day started with the news. My friend Zhenya's husband was killed at the front. This is the first thing I saw in my newsfeed. In the morning, when I went to the cemetery to visit my husband's grave.

aiI was driving and the widow Marina was sitting next to me. We drove through a city full of life and called a volunteer, Oleh, who transports the dead, asking him to help Zhenya take her husband out of the frontline.

aiOver the past week, new graves have appeared at the cemetery. There are again many unknowns among them. And somehow it is especially painful for this. I untied two bouquets of chrysanthemums to place at least one flower on the graves with nameless headstones, but they were still not enough for a tenth of them.

aiThe mother of one of the fallen soldiers was crying loudly. And not far from her, another mother was sincerely happy about the liberation of Kherson, because now she would be able to conduct an exhumation and take her son home from Krasnopil. Such was the joy...

aiWe were scheduled to meet with six other widows in the city.

aiThey were very similar to each other, because they were all terribly thin, with such, you know, sharp cheekbones, thin noses, and big eyes.

aiWe drank coffee and really wanted to support the guys. Somehow to cheer them up with conversations. But they supported us. Having gone through the hell of the Mariupol battles and the torture of captivity, they have the strength and desire to be close to the families of soldiers killed at the front.

aiOn the way home, a car honked at us on the highway. But we did not recognize it. My phone let me know who was honking at us. So we stopped for coffee at Lyuda's house, also a widow.
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