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secret windows (don't look back)

I found myself in a conversation with an old friend, about the crossroads of writing, nostalgia and memory. "Distance and perspective are the upside." I said. "The slippery slope is romanticizing and being nostalgic. Well, that's the memory trap no matter who you are."
"It's funny... I spent most of my life thinking that I had a rather dull adolescence, and it's only recently that I've discovered that these stories are a lot more interesting than I gave them credit." My friend replied. I admitted that I gravitate towards stories that are based on a mistake, a lie - thinking you had some great childhood, when actually it was a shitshow, and you fantasized about being adopted but sort of blocked that out.  


The question wobbled around inside my head for a few days. Was I too fast to judge nostalgia, to quick to brush aside its sweetness, stepping over it towards something invariably darker and sadder?  On Sunday, I was walking on Kutuzovsky,…

Love and fists



On a quiet back street, a woman approaches us. She is short, her long coat like a frayed purple tube around her stout body. There is a giant gap between her front teeth. All at once I recognize her. It is Lubov (literally "Love") E's old kindergarten teacher. She is all smiles, coughing that thick smoker's cough as she leans forward to touch E on the shoulder.

We have that common conversation, about how E is bigger, about her good grades, about how Lubov misses her. It could be the same talk I have with an old teacher from the farm days in a supermarket parking lot.

E's chin digs into her chest. She does not want to say much.

I remember dragging her to school, her clinging to me, not wanting to go in. One morning I brought her late and Lubov met us downstairs. E was in tears. Lubov kneeled down to her, and wiggled the fingers of her hand in the air.
"This is you." She told E, folding her thumb  into her palm.
"This is your Papa." She said, folding another.
"This is me." She said, another on top then wrapping her fingers into a tight fist. "We are all together."
E was nodding.
Lubov shook her fist in the air, driving the point home. E was four then, maybe five at the most. She was ripe to believe.
I kissed the top of her head and left her with the other children.
I can remember walking around in the snow, restless, imagining her a crying mess hoping I was wrong.









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