after the second cake

Flour, butter, eggs, sugar, vanilla, some berries, a container of sour cream, a packet of baking powder, a pinch of salt. Holding the knob down on the stove for an hour as it cooks because the knob is broken, my fingers grow numb. Sometimes the light goes out and I have to restart it. Looking out the windows for that hour I realize I need to wrap the rest of E's presents. And now the cake comes out, a wooden match thrust inside shows it is just done. It must cool with the kitchen windows open a little.

Later, melting chocolate with butter and a little powdered sugar, the frosting emerges - a cocoa sky, wet and thick. And yes, a tiny vial of golden stars is somewhere in the closets. I stand on a chair, sprinkling them from a great height. I laugh at my reflection in the window - the father cooking in boxer shorts in the middle of the day.

A wealth of stars for E this year. They drift down and stick in ragged clumps. I can't stop until the vial is empty.

A galaxy to wish inside.

There is a quiet party on her actual birthday, just E and N and me. But there are candles to blow out, as promised. The first in a string of presents are ripped open, the floor a sudden mess. Plates scattered across the table, half-melted candles in a sticky pile. The smell of burned matches. There is soft music playing. E is singing to herself. I like how she stares at the candles for some time, long after we have stopped singing. She makes slow, calculated wishes - then looks at me for a moment, a crooked smile spreading across her face. Only then does she blow them out.

The week dribbles on. The scene outside the windows shows sudden bursts of snow, hail, ice. The entire sky turns white. You cannot see anything, like you are inside a marshmallow. We call parents, send directions. N makes piles of cookies. I try to keep the house in shape.

And then Friday arrives, and E stays at home to decorate with me. To blow up an excessive bag of balloons. To tape banners to the closets and the windows. To eat a quick lunch. She takes a bath, surrounded by a troupe of dolls who act out a number of intrigues and scandals before she calls for me to help her out.

We select a dress, a green one with tiny flowers on the top. I take her picture in the hallway, wearing sparkly sneakers that she kicks off a few minutes later. She is six now. Last week she did not look like this. Last week she had tiny hands, size 29 feet. Last week she burst into tears for no reason and rested her head on my shoulder until she felt better. Today she stands with a hand on her hip - slanting towards the living room.

Friends and children arrive over the next hours. Ponytails and snowpants. Fresh pizzas from the oven, still holding that knob down to keep the flame working. There is a massive lego village being built in the doorway. I am playing The Rolling Stones in the kitchen, and have finally opened that bottle of Prosecco. N is shuttling back and forth. We are out of apple juice already.

A collection of instruments make their way into the living room. The kids put on a messy concert, more rhythm than melody. The tiny accordion is shared between them. Hard to predict that would be the popular one.

After the second cake, after the pile of gifts is opened, examined and released from their cardboard and plastic ties, after the guests have been stuffed with tiny sandwiches and tea and coffee, the kids all jump on the bed for a very long time.

I did that when I was little, mostly when I was five. I remember jumping on a bed with my brother and a girl named Astra for a very long time one summer day.

We are still friends.

albino fruit

N is still in bed. E is at her mother's today. This is the best time to write, when the rooms are empty and still. We cleaned all day Saturday. I emptied three boxes of old toys, finding bits of food and god knows what as I reached their bottoms. Tiny doll clothes here, art supplies here, E's little guitar here, legos in these two boxes. We were Spring cleaning even if fresh snow was falling. The windows open, the air almost salty we pressed through the piles until there were none. N in my old CBGBs tshirt, sweeping bits of plastilene up with a furious expression - her cleaning face, I call it.

And now, a house with clean floors, with order. A house tamed into warmth and open spaces that do not hurt to walk across in the middle of the night.

The hyacinth lost its flowers. I saved a handful of shriveled blossoms for some reason in an envelope.

This is the cleansing breath. Spring begins today, but I do not feel it - I know it can't snow much longer.  These are the days just before E's birthday, when I realize we have made it another year together. When I drink in the changes late at night in the kitchen with just the stove light on, staring into a tiny glass of red wine. 

I bought a pair of Italian juice glasses in New York two summers ago, when I was still living in that apartment. I kept them wrapped in brown paper, tucked in the back of a cabinet. They were a blind wish, a promise to myself and E. I planned to unwrap them the first night I got out of there, and pour some juice for E in the other one. We would make a toast. It seemed impossible. I had thirty dollars in my pocket, my bank accounts emptied by E's mother. I did not think of those two glasses all of the time. I got caught up in the struggle to put a pile of money together. And then, looking for a pen, or some book I needed, my fingers would rest on that brown paper for a moment. 

My fingertips would relax and stop grasping in the darkness. 

We did drink juice from them a few months later. We still do. E holds on to their significance. N loves to turn them in her hands, the art deco flowers curling around in black and pink and green. 

No surprise that I bought two more glasses the last time I was in New York and presented them to N. A laugh jumped out of her mouth when she opened them. We used them right away. 

She is breathing perfectly, one foot extending from beneath the covers. 

Last night there was a giant moon in the night sky, hanging over the river like an albino fruit, rare and luminous.

the little prophet and the flowers

My hat blows off in the wind. E is in hysterics as I chase it across the sidewalk, her shadow stretching long down Kutuzovsky. An ice cream melting in long drips across her mitten waves in the air as she impersonates me. The noise of the traffic around us is defeaning. I squeeze her hand, keeping the other on the brim of the hat as the wind whips around us. The flowers tucked under my arm are wrapped in cellophane, bending against my chest, flopping back across my elbows. I hope they will survive the trip.

E tries to tell me something, but I can't hear her. It is always this loud here, but the sun is shining. It is a warmer walk on this side of the street.

I turn us onto the bridge that crosses the river, a plastic covered walkway with expensive cafes that serve terrible espresso and a collection of bizarre gift stores I have never seen anyone inside. We stare at the river below, now only half frozen. The sun bangs back at us. It is quiet here. I peel her mittens off.

"I was trying to tell you about the wires." She said.
"What wires?" I ask.
"The ones that were between you and mom." She adds, then taking a thoughtful lick.
"Ah, ok." I say, waiting for her to explain this.
"See, when you lived together there were a lot of wires." She says. "But now there are like one - or none."
I nod once, slowly.
"And the wires are like you fighting. When you were being nice and she was mean to you and then you were fighting." She says. "They were that wires."
I smooth her hair from her face.
"And the fighting is because of the wires. So if the wires are going away, it is less." She says, shrugging her shoulders.
"Got it." I say.
"But the wires are from a flower under the ground." She says, looking up at me.
"Inside the ground?" I ask.
"No!" She says. "UNDER the ground. It grows deep. It does not have sun."
I sigh.
I squeeze her hand once.
"And how does the flower grow?" I ask.
"The flower is BAD. The flower makes the wires that make the fights." She says, almost frustrated.
"And who can see the flower?" I ask.
"Only me." She says, relaxing a bit. "And my people. Like if you have robot bones like me, you can know it."
She is silent for a moment.
"But it is a secret, and you cannot tell no one about it unless you ask me first." She says, crunching on the final shape of the cone.

"Deal." I say.
We make a pinky swear.

"If you want, I can make magic and you can have robot bones." She tells me. "They will protect you from the wires."
I smile once, nod yes.

She hands me the last bite of the cone to hold, and stands up. Shuffling around in her snow pants, her hat cocked back on her head, she waves her hands in circles. I see her dirty fingernails. I smell the street on us, dry and foul, then the bitter coffee they make here. Her eyes grow wide. She points at me for a few frozen seconds. She mumbles some made-up words.
"Close your eyes." She says, leaning forward and whispering in my ear.
I do.
She does something else, then leans into my ear again, her mouth breathing heavily as she whispers dramatically. "OK, you have robot bones now."
I stand up, trying to find my balance.
"NO." She says. "No one can know. They are secret robot bones."
I slump back to being myself. I wave once to her, to stand up. She tosses the final point of the cone into her mouth with a satisfied flourish. I pull her coat around her shoulders, adjust her scarf. We start off.
"Pop." She says, dragging me to a stop.
I look and see the flowers are still on the bench.
She laughs and laughs at me.

A few days later we are walking home. The snow is finally melting.

"You know?" She says, out of nowhere. "There is another flower I forgot to tell you about."
"Oh realllllly?" I say, showing my robot walk for a second.
"It is in the sky." She says.
I look up.
"It is about love."

the Sunday of forgiveness

Those five days in New York are far behind me now. A familiar view of the river, the smell of bacon and black coffee - all distant. A ghost. I am not sure it exists once I land and drag my bags home then fight to get E back. All at once she is sneezing, running a low fever and then a high one. Within hours I am cooking chicken soup, wrapping her in blankets. Presents for her and N are scattered across my luggage, some opened and celebrated, some not yet.

The snow falls all night in giant flat discs. New drifts to hide the car tires. Yes, warm enough to turn the black ice to a slurry of mud that pastes itself to boots and the bottoms of your jeans. I sleep in shifts as E wakes up asking for more glasses of water, or just to be held. She can't find sleep until morning comes. She will miss the party today for Women's Day. She will not wear clean white tights, or wear a flower in her hair. She will curl up on the couch next to me instead, playing with a new set of legos, new dolls, maybe chew on a strawberry licorice if she is up to it.

The days unfold. The chicken soup is almost finished. E is better now. I make us pancakes with maple syrup. It is Maslenitsa, a week-long festival of pancakes. Butter, eggs, flour, milk - all will be put aside for Lent soon. Maslenitsa is a Spring celebration, but it is still winter albeit a few degrees warmer than a few weeks ago.

It is good to be home. I am missed when I am away. N is her usual self - warm, gentle, tender as ever. I cook us great bowls of pasta we eat late at night. It is a long holiday weekend, and all of the museums are closed. Nothing to do but watch movies late into the night and sleep late. Nothing to do but find warmth as the snow sprinkles down making tiny noises against the balcony windows. We leave them open a bit for some fresh air.

On Sunday night, the last night of Maslenitsa, you are required to ask and grant forgiveness to all that ask it. N jokes with me, as we have nothing to apologize for between us.

I dream I am in a basement full of small animals, namely a black and white rabbit. One small window shows it is nighttime outside. All at once a black panther enters, coming right up to me just like at the zoo but there is no thick pane of glass between us. I can feel whiskers brushing against my cheek, foul breath on me, stinking of rotten meat and blood. The panther's fur reeks of smoke and shit and piss. I wait for it to bite me, to gnaw on my bones but then it all disappears. Now it is morning in some boarding house I live in. I go downstairs, finding my way to the kitchen. A lady is putting plates out on a long table. I am starving, my stomach gurgling and empty. The plates are full of boiled human hands. It is the only thing to eat. I pull back, asking if there is anything else. She shakes her head no. Desperate, I bite into a palm and then spit it out.

I will go hungry here.