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How I left America, and my adventures in Moscow as a husband, father and artist.
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the birdhouse
A sagging, metal cage is tucked inside a corner of this park.
I ask N what it is.
"For pigeons." She explains. "A bird house."
But there are no birds. Just a faded sign that hangs crooked from the fence, a path that is not walked. No feathers. No bird shit. No sounds of cooing or flapping wings. Just the wind that moves the trees around, suddenly full of tiny leaves. Just us on this bench, with V scraping a plastic spoon into an ice cream cone.
I sit with the building behind me, sure that another relic will be gone if I glance back over my shoulder at it. Every shed painted the brightest blue, every concrete garage, every old swingset - they disappear in the middle of the night, ripping down by a secret society leaving not a splinter in the grass.
They are documented as a habit - a compulsion.
"This could all be gone tomorrow" They seem to say.
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somewhere over the rainbow (and other stories)
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