This is my grandma Ira. I was named after her. Everyone in the village knew Baba Ira, she was a star. She drank, but everyone in the village drank.

Baba Ira lost her whole family: first her youngest son died, then the grandfather, then her second son. She had only my mother left. Baba Ira did not manage to survive her losses, and she became very ill. She forgot everyone, so we got to know each other all over again every time I visited her.

Baba Ira really liked being photographed. She always asked to see what we got, and showed the photo she liked best. Baba Ira always chose the photo where she was smiling, but always worried that now she wasn't as pretty as she used to be.

In her most recent photos, she's not smiling. I remember the last time we met. She had her head uncovered, and I saw her beautiful hair. She was watching the show called The sun no longer shines, and commented enthusiastically on what was going on. Gangsters, kidnappings, blackmail — Baba Ira was fascinated. I cautiously hugged her, so as not to disturb her, and left for the bus stop. Baba Ira said bye and lit a cigarette. I think she's still smoking up there in the sky.

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