The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2020

I always thought Russian nicknames strange. But there was nothing strange about the way it came off your lips—extinguishing my temper just as I passed the threshold of the cabin, and there, by the fireplace, piled the wood I chopped. On the yellowed floor boards, I turn to you. Your hair loose from its normal tie at the nape of your neck. The liquid night sky that moved between my fingers. I place my hand right over the small tattoo on your chest that read my name, taking steadying breaths. You kept saying, It didn’t matter anymore . That it was not wrong for us to be together, even when people would whisper. I was an adult now, but some would wonder how long our relationship was. You spoke calmly. Your voice smooth like the vodka I saw you drink only twice, the finish piercing like your accent. We were always so different. As your eyes lit up as stars against the inky sky, you talked about Omsk, when your Mom finally caved and let you read her fancy American western novels. How you would sit and turn the pages gently, out of fear that what you held was so precious it would crumble and tear. 188 The Meadow