Владимирская

when i lived in petersburg, russia i rented a room from an amazing woman, marina nikolaievich, her husband, nikolai nikolaievich, and his senile sister lydia. he had some sort of ailment that prevented him from ever sitting down; nomatter what he was doing--eating, watching tv, reading, he only ever ceased to stand when he went immediately to a laying position at bedtime. and they lived on the third floor, which made it quite difficult for him to get outside to the fresh air. nevertheless, when it was nice outside, marina held him and walked him slowly, carefully down and back up again. it probably took a half hour each way. lydia, who had long before lost her marbles, talked to the cats and made a puffing sound with her lips constantly. she gave many hugs.
but marina was an angel. she was the kindest woman i have ever met. she always wanted to know where i was and what i was doing, and she worried when i came home late. russians stay up late (and, consequently, go to work late--seriously, businesses rarely open before ten!) and so when i came home at ten or eleven, they'd be having their tea. chai i hleb (tea and bread, as it were, served with the most wonderous of jams). i was quickly picking up russian, as i'd opted to live with them and in the city where i was forced to speak much more russian than if i'd stayed in the dorms with the other english-speakers. marina and her family spoke not a scratch of english, though marina spoke a bit of german. when she discovered i, too, spoke german, our conversations became colored with both languages, switching back and forth.
she had an amazing story. her parents were part of the inteligentsia, which was a bad thing in communist russia. her father was a symphony conductor (hence her love for classical music) and was shot in the head right in front of her. her mother disappeared and she never found her again. she had been in love with nikolai for quite some time, but his mother disapproved because of marina's love for books and music (she was a librarian). so they waited for nikolai's mother to die before they were united. she takes care of him (and his sister) with unconditional love.
during our late night tea she told me amazing stories of her childhood memories, communist russia, and the change; we talked of music and politics, our dreams and aspirations. she was amazing.
they rented out one of their two rooms, and when i went to see it they offered me my choice of either one. the apartment was small to begin with; there was a bigger room that also held the dining room table and a smaller room that basically fit a single bed and a dresser drawer. i asked where they slept if i took the big one--the three of them would cram into the smaller one. of course, i took the smaller, and each month i paid them $20 more than what we agreed (that's quite a lot in russia). even though food wasn't a part of the deal, if i was around during dinner or tea she always insisted i join them, and she would offer me anything she had, even the last of it. i learned a lot during those 5 months i lived with them.
it was difficult to live in russia, though beautiful at the same time. it could be so dreary and lonesome. i wrote this poem after i returned in november 2001. the title is the name of the street where they lived.

Владимирская
Как я скучаю по времени когда Я жило с вами
Улыбкомна ваших лицах
Как вы радуетесь процтым вещям
Как мы разговаривам на ломанном немецком и русском
И с помощью наших рук

Моей комнате ц желтыми занавесками
У окнам что открываются на улищу
Позволяя звукам жизна снизу войти
И уверяя меня в мои самые
Одинокие часы что жизнь красива

Я скучаю по нашим разговарам о симфониях и политике
Как вы делились со мной секретными рецептами
И как вы всегда были рады поделиться последней едой

Последний раз я видила вас,
Ваша маленькая фигура отправлеющая меня в мир
Ц широкой улыбкой перекрестив меня
Я увижу вас снова, я подумала.

Я скучаю по вам.

Vladimirskaya

how i miss my home with you

the smiles on your faces

your pleasure in the simple things

the way we spoke in broken german and russian

and with our hands

my room with the yellow curtains

and the windows that opened to the street

letting in the sounds of life from below

and assuring me, even in my loneliest hours,

that life is beautiful

i miss our talks of symphonies and politics

how you imparted to me your secret recipes

and the way you were always glad to share

what food you had left

the last i saw of you,

your short body sending me off into the world

with a gleaming smile and the sign of the cross

i will see you again, i thought.

i miss you.