Before I turn five, you are restless. You are always coming back from somewhere and rarely staying.
I play the piano at your friend’s house, and spend the night there without you.
I don’t remember your friend’s face, or her name.
She lives in an apartment building.
You and I go up in the elevator together, and then I stay and you leave.
Your other friend lets me sew with a needle. I don’t sleep at her house.
She has heavy, burgundy drapes, and a sister. Yellow morning light filters in through her window.
She gives me a swatch of satin to poke the needle and thread through.
A man comes to our apartment with a bear rug. He can draw. He copies the bear from the rug onto a piece of paper.
He sits with me in our living room. He draws and I watch, delighted, as his hand makes lines on the paper with a pencil.
Another man, my uncle, fills the door frame of our apartment. He watches me as I look at a book on the floor.
I watch him back.
My head is hot with a fever.
He doesn’t say anything.
I hardly remember you.
One time we woke up early and stood in line together outside a grocery store.
The night before we left, you threw me a birthday party.
You had my hair cropped to look just like yours.
Our apartment was bare but for a table and an armchair.
I chased my friend under the table, and begrudgingly posed for a picture in the armchair. You made me wear a red flamenco dress. I didn’t like how poofy it was or how ridiculous it made me feel.
Adults crowded around the table when it was time to cut the cake.
My grandmother, my Babushka, put me to sleep that night.
My room was dark. She sat on my bed.
I couldn’t see her face, but I could hear her say,
“When you arrive in the United States, your mother might leave you, and you might live in an orphanage.”
I dreamt you left on a train without me. I stood on the train tracks, small, distressed, and watched the caboose, and you on it, disappear into the distance.
You woke me while it was still night out.
You said the taxi was outside.
Babushka stood at the door. I watched as you hugged goodbye.
The driver helped load our luggage into the trunk.
The street lamps were yellow and bright against the black sky. Snow was falling.
The airport was crowded. You had a lot to carry.
You were distracted.
I stayed close by.
A snowstorm grounded our plane in Khabarovsk. We could not stay in the airport. No one was sure how long the storm would last.
We walked to the nearest hostel, dragging our luggage through the snow. There were no beds. The man at the desk said everything nearby would be full.
What else could we do? We walked to the next hostel.
The second walk was harder than the first. The sky was darker. The luggage was heavier.
At the second hostel, you pleaded with the woman at the front desk. We will not take up much room. Please, she is too tired to walk anywhere else.
We were given a bed in a room already occupied by two other women. Traveling sisters from Turkey. You made conversation with them while I explored the dark hallway outside our room. I walked past people sleeping curled up on the cold laminate floor.
The storm blew over and we headed back to the airport with our luggage.
We had to get your Egyptian rug through customs.
Security wanted to unravel it to make sure there was nothing unsafe in the middle. They wheeled the 8 x 10 sausage roll over to us on a dolly and made you untie the rope binding it together. You muttered frustrations under your breath. You’d rolled it so tidily, so perfectly, the first time.
You rolled it back together when they were satisfied, but in a rush this time. The inspection took so long.
You and I ran through the airport to the next terminal.
At our next layover, I could not sleep. You said I’d been awake for over 12 hours. The trip was nearly finished. Our next stop was San Francisco.
In the San Francisco airport, I still could not sleep.
We ate popcorn in an airport pub.
One more flight.
Ed Asner picked us up from LAX.
I crawled into his limousine and lay my head down on the leather seating. When I opened my eyes, we were at the hotel.
Stray Sentences 