Iemigrated from Russia to the US. My dear parents blessed my departure and were not unhappy with my decision. They knew I could not stay, they believed I made the best possible choice. They supported me like they supported me for all the previous years.
…The moment I arrived in the US and started breathing the air, one desire immediately pierced me through – I wanted my parents to be with me. Not because I was missing them. But because I wanted them to breathe the same fresh air, to start their lives anew, to shake off the years of pain and desperation – I wanted them to be free.
They listened to my stories on Skype, they received my photos in envelopes from America, they watched the videos about America that I showed them. They were amused and intrigued. They wanted to come see America.
…And then I had a dream. In the dream I was sitting with my mother in the tiny kitchen in our old Soviet apartment. We spent centuries there together talking about everything – about people we met, events we attended, clothes we bought, knitting, cooking, about how the universe is designed. It was our place. In the dream we sat there talking as usual when all of a sudden the floor under our feet disappeared and we started falling down. It was not an earthquake. In the earthquake you fall on the ground, yes, buried, but you end up on the ground. In my dream there was no ground, we were falling into the black infinite abyss.
I still shudder when I recall this dream. We both knew we were going to die, we did not know how and exactly when, but we knew it was the end. I grabbed my mother and was holding her tight. I knew it would not change the course of events and would not save us, but in the dream I decided that it was the only thing I could do. Was it meaningful? No. Did it help me feel better about our fall? No. Did it help my mother? I don’t know. The only thought in the dream was – whatever happens happens but I am not letting you go. I will be with you till the very end. I woke up almost trembling. The dark mood that the dream put me in would not dissolve for days. And no matter how hard I tried to understand the dream, I could not comprehend it.
…Several years later, my parents packed their suitcases and showed up at JFK. My dear parents looked like classical Russian pensioners: dad in his fedora hat and suit, mom in old lady’s dress and babushka’s scarf. Dark color practical clothes, suitable for travel and at the same time looking presentable by the Russian standards. By the American standards that I had already absorbed and embraced they were ghosts from the Soviet era. I felt it acutely standing at the arrival gate in JFK trying not to cry.
I redressed them – I bought them light color summer clothes, comfortable and easy to put on. Together with my husband we took them to interesting places in the state. We rode together on the double-decker bus in New York. We stood in Times Square marveling at the architecture. We swam in our outdoor pool. We sat on our deck eating steaks and singing Russian songs.
It was a miracle and I was the happiest person in the world.
But that was when I was with them. I was still working during the day in the office, and driving home to my parents after work my happiness would suddenly crumble down and I would be drowning in a stream of tears that would appear from nowhere. I could not help it, I was holding the steering wheel trying to see the road through the fog of tears and would not stop sobbing. By the time of my arrival to my house the tears would dry out and I would be able to get out of the car as if nothing happened. That repeated many times until I realized – that’s my and my parents’ goodbye to each other that we don’t dare to say aloud but it was still conveyed to me through the unconscious.
During their visit I noticed that my mother started slowing down. She would travel with us eagerly but I noticed that more often she preferred to stay home, to sit on the bench in our yard with a crossword on her lap.
When they left, I continued being in touch with them: I called them every Saturday. Not because I felt an obligation to do so, no, I genuinely wanted to be with them and our Skype conversations were a live thread that connected me with their lives.
My mother was losing her short term memory fast. Our conversations were becoming less and less meaningful. After five minutes into the conversation she would start asking the same questions she asked me at the beginning of the call. I was not irritated or upset. I knew where she was going. I was separated from her by the ocean, by thousands of miles. I had a job, a husband, a house, I had my entire life in the US. I could not go back. And my parents would not want me to. All I could do is to call mom on a Saturday and sit with her, for the hundredth time answering her questions. I was not mad or impatient, I said to her in my mind: whatever happens happens but I am not letting you go.