Last night I got a phone call from my grandma’s brother. I was seven or eight last time I saw him, and I only have a few scattered recollections from that visit: long scratches on my arms from picking raspberries in his garden, huge chunks of watermelon, which my grandma examined through her reading glasses, hoping to spot the signs of nitrate poisoning (was there ever such a food scare in the west?), a disappointing trip to a toy store, where I found nothing I liked in a roomful of stuffed animals. There was a friendship with his daughter, one year my junior, dedicated, it seemed, to exploring the shades of childhood terror: locking each other in dark broom closets, browsing an almanac of human deformities, inventing ghosts in the pantry, sharks in the bathtub, and monsters under the bed that later haunted our dreams. Once she poked a needle through her cheek (did she?) and rolled with laughter when I shrieked and flew under a bedcover. She teased me about being my AUNT, and therefore older, although actually younger.
The conversation with Georgy was sweet and a little awkward. He asked about my dissertation, requested a family visit and a photo of me and my husband.
My teenage rebellion expressed itself as contempt for family ties – so WHAT if they are relatives, I don’t even KNOW them much! It was a costless rebellion; ours is a scattered family that calmly acknowledges distance – many connections are latent, nobody expects phone calls from abroad, so nobody was any wiser about my defiance. Still, as these ties are slowly solidifying during my stay in Russia, I feel like I’m receiving undeserved blessings.
Better go dig out that photo.
