Skip to main content


talking to the trees

Most experiences cannot be discussed. No one wants to hear the ugly truth, and chances are you will be attacked for sharing it. To be able to speak freely means that you need a willing listener, otherwise you are just talking to the trees. Time and again I have come to understand that there is no difference between New York and Moscow, no difference between East and West. They are just cults of personality, built on violence and money and moral quicksand.

The life of an expat evolves from those early, awkward victories to one of assimilation or in cases like mine - eventually understanding that you have no country you can (or want to) call home. I am left with just these four walls and my family. This apartment is the only place I actually belong. This is the only place I do not need to soft-pedal my thoughts, where I do not need to apologize for what I have unearthed. The river of betrayal runs deep whether I look outside, or across the ocean. Willful ignorance, willful indifference…

the darkest day

I pull the hat down over my face, and try to lean against the window. It is clammy with the sweat of morning coating the inside of the little bus. I wait for it to lurch into gear, wobbling towards home. Someone nudges my shoulder and I assume it is just another jacket or purse swiping against me, as people shove their way down the narrow aisle. No, it is a man asking for change for a 500 ruble bill. I shake my head, pull the hat down to my chin. 

The darkest day is over. Soon the little edge of light in the distance will be bigger by the time I get back, hoping the elevator is working, pulling kasha from the shelf, chopping some onion, fishing an egg out of the fridge, dancing on cold feet and waiting for the water to boil for tea. The crows are still making noise downstairs in the playground. It sounds more like a cartoon graveyard.

The bus rounds the turn onto the road that runs along the river. There is the old place. They did not change the windows yet. I can remember the sound of the ones on the balcony swatting around in the wind or slamming shut all by themselves.

It is about to be eight years here. Eight years of cold stares and outstretched hands. Eight years of bargaining for potatoes, for an extra piece of fruit. Eight years of mud puddles and cars that drive on sidewalks, of quiet nights, of giant cups of sweet black tea at kitchen tables, birthdays, anniversaries, forgotten bottles of wine. It all compresses, packs down to nothing, just a messy pile of papers at the corner of my desk. Eight years turned as thin as twenty pages of paper.

E's hair is long. I brush it each morning, pulling out the knots and twisting it into a ponytail. We walk, wordless in the darkness between the streetlights each morning. She takes my hand when we cross icy spots and leans against me while we wait for the bus.


liv said…
I hope there is some cheer for you in these few christmas days. I know there is.

I am sending Love to all three of you. Sweet dreams, good food, enough wine and the warmth of three hands holding.


Popular Posts

best personal blogs
best personal blogs