Maria Reva - Endling
My sister and I went about our days. We got haircuts, we went to the opera. We ate cake. The smallest actions felt defiant, a middle finger to the aggressors trying to chip away at every joy. The front line felt far away, solid and unmoving, more wall than fire. There would be an occasional sound in the distance I couldn’t recognize or account for—but for better or for worse, I believed I could control how close I came to the war, or how close it came to me. Don’t we all share delusions like these, even (or especially) in peacetime? That death won’t find us, not today?
—
Years ago, my grandfather invited me to come live with him for three months so that we could spend our days talking. He’d tell me about his favorite writers, his favorite books, the ones he’d spent a lifetime collecting. He’d tell me more about his life under Soviet rule, more than what I’d already recorded during previous visits, which flew by, each a couple of weeks at most. No, this time we’d take our time. Every day we’d sit down for tea, or beer with salty fish. He likes to talk, can talk endlessly. Usually I get tired of it, start to squirm, ache to go outside and stretch my legs, but in this other scenario, this other fantasy, I won’t. I’ll sit and listen hour after hour as the sun arches over the kitchen window and the shadows circle, as the acacia leaves fall and regrow.