Fresh snow makes everything better. Brighter, lighter, whiter, more bearable. Today, I am grateful for fresh snow like never before. Today, I am grateful for a walk in dimming twilight, for the freshness of crisp air. Today, I was grateful for the privilege to turn off news and social media. To live, for a day, without war.

In the evening, I opened my Facebook feed and learned that the poet Maxim Kryvtsov perished in battle. He was 33. Judging from the photos, he had green eyes and almost unbearably handsome face. I didn’t know who Maxim was, had no idea that his poetry book was voted one of the best Ukrainian books of 2023. I had no idea he lived and now he’s dead and I feel the pain together with many people who loved him and whom I love. I didn’t know his name, but I knew his poetry – it appeared on my Facebook feed from time to time, reposted by friends. His poem about Bucha massacre, God, I must have read it a dozen times and cried every time I read it. Until tonight, I didn’t know who wrote the poem that made me cry. Now the people this poem was written about are gone and now the beautiful man who wrote about them is gone too. And with everyone gone, who will remain?