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streetlights

There is no easy way to say it. I was married to someone I hid from. Tucking E into a sling, I would disappear for hours saying I was going shopping for dinner, and if she fell asleep the excuse was that she needed fresh air as I sat on a park bench with her tiny hand grabbing my pinky until she eventually woke up. I would make my way along the side streets of Greenwich as the sun went down, leaning into store windows but not going in. Eventually I would go home, and as I turned the corner there was a security light that would switch on - obviously attached to some motion sensor. In those strange and lonely moments, I would talk to that light. Each time it clicked on, I felt somehow that the night ahead could be survived no matter what madness waited for us behind the front door.

That was twelve years ago.

Another life, another country.

Today, I turned a corner in Moscow with an all-too familiar bag of groceries swinging from my shoulder. A street light flickered on and all at once I…

where (part 3)


There are parades today. Jets screaming overhead in formation, tanks rolling across cobblestones. The embassy sends out alerts, suggesting to Americans that they should stay inside on holidays like this There was a moment when I thought to try to stand in the crowd, saying not a word, my camera tucked under my arm sneaking pictures of faces and children, of soldiers and militia, the crisp lines of uniforms, the cheeks shaved smooth. 

But that is not what happened. I stayed at home. 

On friday I got to E's school on the early side, and wandered around behind it. Here, the river snakes through the city. The White House is just across from this spot, a bridge arcing across the water with flags snapping in the wind. I go to the left, as a party boat cruises past, no music pumping, no people bouncing on the upper deck. It is too early in the day for that. At one point an old man ambles past me, his medals clinking on a tattered jacket, ribbons and gold discs making a little song as they slap against each other. I take one picture as he passes, pretending to be looking at the White House and the water. He smirks, nods his head after I click. He is carrying a pink plastic bag that flaps around in the wind. 

I go back the other way, towards the little gas station that perches behind a hotel. A young woman is walking towards me in a black leather miniskirt, black shirt, black stilettos, black purse with a chunky gold chain on it. Her hair is more puffy balloon than anything else. I see her cotton candy pink lipstick, the big hoop earrings. Something tells me she is going to try to ask me something, that she is a prostitute. I am wrong. She says nothing, chin tucked towards her chest as she passes. I have pulled off two frames before this, with one of the gas pumpers smoking a cigarette in the background. I see her face, it looks too young for the clothing she wears as she cautiously clicks down the sidewalk. Later she will turn back, asking questions from men getting out of their cars as they pay for gas. Maybe she is lost. Maybe she needs to borrow a cel phone. I see them talking her for some time, and then driving away. 

I camp out across the street from the gas station. One guy is wearing no shirt, just overalls and he reminds me of a character in an early Wenders film - Kings of the Road.  The sun goes behind a cloud. I check the meter, framing up the empty street, the red and white smokestacks in the distance. The girl in the miniskirt is still making her way up and down the sidewalk. 

I go back to the school, where children are running with jackets twisted around their waists, where E appears, her face lighting up when she sees me. 



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