The Pilgrimage
I am not a baker—
flour escapes me like good timing in conversation—
but still, I wander
as if the streets were veins and I
a cholesterol-rich prophet
seeking signs in layers of gold.
My dog walks beside me,
the picture of aloof elegance,
slender as a breadstick
wrapped in Italian linen,
her eyes scanning café windows
with the judgment of a small, fashionable duchess.
We do not rush.
We pause at glass cases
as if they were altars—
assessing, admiring,
sometimes gasping audibly
at a shine too artificial
or a crust too pale to trust.
There is ceremony in it:
the weight of a paper bag,
the warm promise inside.
We find a bench like believers
and break bread in silence,
my fingers dusted with flakes
that glint in the sun
like tiny medals
for an act of quiet devotion.
Some say it’s ridiculous.
But let them chase their purpose in spreadsheets—
we have ours,
me and the dog,
trailing crumbs
and the hope of a pastry
that tastes like Paris
on an ordinary Tuesday.
The Train Window
I sit on the train, watching the dirty window,
a wrinkled screen with a low-resolution world projected onto it.
Outside, the sky is thick with clouds, packed so tight
not a sliver of sunlight dares to break through—
as if light itself would throw the nation into chaos.
A month ago, I lived in a place where the air smelled of salt,
where mangoes ripened on trees,
where the ocean stretched out like an open road.
But here, the clouds are permanent, the air is heavy,
and the roads only lead back to where I started.
Inside, a middle-aged woman looks old,
a man grips his dog’s leash,
his face a map of deep-set lines—age or sorrow, I can't tell.
A child’s voice echoes, but the child is nowhere to be seen.
I, too, sit in silence, wrapped in my bright green turtleneck,
purple shoes, and a face that does not smile.
I didn’t want to come back.
But my grandmother is dying, and so I am here,
on a train, watching a city I no longer call home,
carrying a love that is heavier than resentment.
I sit on the train and look within.
I am from this nation, woven from the same cloth.
My hair, my eyes—we could be siblings.
Yet something in me rebels.
I want to dance, to smile, to peel back the clouds
and let the sun in—just to see what would happen.
A Visit to Grandma
For the women who were soft before they were told not to be.
I pack the bag with quiet hands—
sweets she didn’t ask for,
and treats for animals who
live longer than they should,
mostly out of spite.
Zoya watches, unbothered, curled
like a comma in the sentence of my morning.
We’re going to see Grandma.
But first, the bazar:
candied fruits, sugared almonds,
a thousand choices she’ll complain about
before finishing all of them.
I pick up pet food too—
this house runs on ritual and obligation.
The train rocks gently,
and outside the window,
my childhood replays in reverse.
Same cracked fences,
same crooked trees.
I walked this road with scraped knees once.
Now I walk it with a dog.
«Вот и опять…»
("Here we go again...")
whispered like a memory—her voice in my head as the houses blur past.
She opens the door
like she’s surprised I came.
She always is.
We eat.
I reheat.
We sip tea and pretend
nothing ever changes.
But something has.
Midway through the meal,
she wilts.
Quietly excuses herself
and slides into a softer chair.
I watch her bones ask for mercy.
I don’t say much.
Just hold the moment
like it might break.
The next morning, she insists:
“We’re going to the market.”
She puts on her armor—
lipstick, floral scarf,
the illusion of control.
But I see the tremble.
She asks a question,
doesn’t catch the answer.
So I tell her again.
And again.
Five times, sometimes more.
„Senele, gal nori pailsėti?“
("Grandma, maybe you'd like to rest?")
I offer a bench.
She waves me off.
I press gently.
She sharpens.
I let it go.
Loving her means
choosing when to stay silent.
Back home, she’s a shadow
of the woman from earlier.
But I mow the lawn,
and like magic,
she appears with a shovel.
No energy to speak of—
just stubborn joy.
She plants flowers
like they’ll outlive us all.
They probably will.
That evening, I try to ask
about her past.
She shrugs,
dodges,
pretends she forgets.
But when I say:
“I wish I knew my great-grandmother’s voice,”
she cracks open.
Lets me record her.
Voice soft,
fingers twitching
like a nervous child’s.
«Ну ладно… только немножко.»
("Okay... just a little.")
—she says it like a secret,
and suddenly she's a girl again, afraid of being wrong.
And I realize—
she’s still someone’s daughter too.
She never learned
what to do with love
when it arrived quietly.
Only how to perform it
loud and large,
then pull away.
When I was small,
her hugs were the sun.
Now I nudge her into them.
And when she finally lets go,
I feel her melt
like ice left too long in the sun.
She won’t say it,
but her body remembers.
„Aš tave myliu.“
("I love you.")
I say it sometimes.
She always nods,
but never says it back.
Not with words.
I don’t know
how many more times I’ll get
to sit across from her,
hold her hand,
watch her forget
and then remember
and then forget again.
But I know this:
She trusts me.
In her own way,
she always has.
And maybe that’s what love looks like
when it has to fight
through generations of silence.
Maybe healing
is just making someone feel
safe enough
to rest.
The Pigeon
I should have known you loved me
when you flew across two oceans
on the first hint of a melody
I didn’t even know I was humming.
It had been four years—
years that held lovers I didn’t love,
lives we lived in parallel time zones,
checking in with the regularity
of solar eclipses,
or customs stamps on spontaneous weekends
in cities we chose like cards from a shuffled deck.
We were never serious,
which is to say:
we were always light,
always laughter over espresso,
always hotel robes and one suitcase shared,
like a secret handshake we never had to explain.
And then one day,
there you were—
in my living room in Bangkok,
sweating through your sweater,
your eyes searching the corners of my life
for a sign that it was finally time.
You came through my window
like a pigeon—
not the city kind,
but one of those mythic birds in poems,
the kind that knows where home is,
even if it’s never been there.
You perched in my space
gently flapping with old hopes,
trapped in your belief
that what we had
could hatch into something permanent.
I loved the stir of your wings,
the way the air moved around you,
how the silence stretched its limbs
and leaned in to listen
to what neither of us dared to say.
And I did try—
to open the window slowly,
to guide you with kindness
back to the sky
without bruising your feathers.
But you wanted to stay.
You mistook my stillness
for a nest.
“I don’t love you,”
I said—
not like a confession,
more like pointing out
that the museum is closing,
and it’s time to leave
even if you didn’t get to see
the painting you came for.
You didn’t fly—
you walked out the door,
quietly,
like a man who knows
he won't ever visit this city again.
And that was that.
Now, when I think of you,
it’s not with longing—
but with a kind of fondness
you might reserve
for an old song
that once made you dance barefoot
on the balcony,
but now just reminds you
to close the windows
when it starts to rain.