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Monologue: Young Firs — “The Last Instruction”

They say the orchard is falling.

I say the world is forgetting.

I was born in service. Not to land, but to order.

To knowing where one stood,

and who one answered to.

When the Liberation came, they cheered. I stayed.

Not because I feared freedom—

but because I knew what freedom forgets.

The cherries used to be dried,

soaked, pickled, sent to Moscow.

Now they rot on the branch.

They’ve forgotten how to make jam.

Gayev speaks of cupboards and billiards.

I speak of linen folded just so.

Of boots polished before sunrise.

Of a boy who once needed me to button his coat.

He grew up. I did not.

They call me old.

But I remember the orchard when it bore fruit.

Not just cherries— but rhythm. Respect. Place.

Now they leave me behind.

Locked in the house like a forgotten coat.

But I will lie down with dignity. Because I served.

And service, even when obsolete, is never shameful.

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