spending time in the mountains,
with my grandmother
reminds me of the younger me.
running with her dog (may he rest peacefully)
in the wide Russian fields,
caring very little about the adult issues
that were definitely coming.
my imagination, at that time,
was my best friend and entertainment;
seeing things used to be pleasant,
but now it just really fucking gets me.
my grandma ran towards me,
as if she still can see the little boy
when the 6 foot man stands in front of her.
too many hugs, too many kisses-
I wish I’d never grown.
I used to love talking to her,
about the silliest things a child could think of;
she’d make me cry from laughter,
now she wants to cry because she doesn’t see my laughter.
my grandmother complains that I don’t talk or smile enough
so I smile at her, with a sense of pride:
for I have finally become a serious man,
smiles are just no fun.
the logs my grandad burned,
would smell and crackle until we’re all asleep.
the dog would heat himself in front of the fire
while I danced around and couldn’t sit still.
the house stood next to a river,
and sometimes big boats would pass by,
so I would run to the binoculars
and write the name of the ship down.
I’m glad I grew up in a village,
because I learnt how to be alone;
there’s nothing else to keep you company
but trees, grass, and rain when there’s a storm.
I sincerely wish that I had stayed a child,
sleeping, with my grandma snoring next to me.
I wish I could wake up in her wooden house,
with my favorite dog drooling onto me.
Those times have passed,
and my memory is too poor
to capture most of it,
but my grandmother smells
the same since I was born,
so at least that’s a reminder for my brain-
that forgetful little shit.