Holidays.
There’s something about holidays. There’s escape and an upward drift of a sort instead of drowning with no escape. Yes, but I want to escape with you!
Like we did escape in the dark churches of a thousand flickering candles, and of underground caves preserving mummies of sacred religious people, revolution and defiance of ordinary people. An old train to Crimea overnight.
You harbor tenderness and care. I’ve never been cared for like this in my life. Stepping from winter to spring and taking a step back in time, in all those Lada cars and Volgas and old trolley buses, we covered the distances of your native land. You told me of war and heroes and ships that were sunk. You told me of your roots and family. You showed me blood and history. We had bitter cold, and the snow falling silently on Kyiv, its’ countless bars and live music, strangers that became friends. Your eyes and your passion and your breath and most of all – your smile. I’ll always remember your smile.
I think we stepped out of time.
