Operation 'Childhood Complete'

I missed that whole toy-packing exercise, which my mother somehow conducted at the end of summer, just before I started school.

My dad was taking me to the Dnipro. We would spend long days there, near the water, on Trukhanov Island.

His sunbed was in the shade, well away from the water. He had his book, I had the beach, and the day was ours to spend.

I would only come back to him hours later, when I couldn't contain my hunger anymore.

He would produce a glass jar filled with boiled, buttered young potatoes covered in dill, salted tomatoes cut into precise quarters, and sugar-coated strawberries. Nothing complicated.

I never saw him near the water. And still, his not swimming was something I never questioned.

Those endless days on the Dnipro were always his idea.

The swimming was entirely mine.

Returning home was an expedition: across the pedestrian bridge over the river, then up and down the Dnipro hills back into the city.

We would hold hands. Me—sunburned and completely defeated by the endless swimming; him, with books under his arm and wet towels.

The first thing I noticed when we came back was the new school uniform hanging on the wall, exactly where my old plush monkey had been when we left that morning.

There was still time before 1 September, but my mother would never leave such things to the last minute.

The dress, topped with the stiffly starched white pinafore, looked rather big to me.

I looked at my bed.

The yellow bear was gone. So was the brown giraffe, the doll with one eye, and the rabbit with a worn-out tail and bald patches on both sides.

I looked underneath.

The small box where I kept the rest of my toys was gone too.

“Mum, where are my toys?”

My mother was cheerful, like someone who had had a very productive day.

“You don't need them anymore. School starts next week.”

The only toy that survived was the little dog I'd taken to the Dnipro with me that day.