1813 c/o Emma Kostanyan

  • A pie and a Pye, in the middle of a graveyard, in early August.
  • My mother, clinging to her tattered Russian books, trying to speak a language no one thanks her in.
  • The sound of war, the sound of glory, the smell of blood, all coming together in my father’s voice. Booming, if there was ever a better word, I have not found one.
  • Exploring the Scottish countryside, her eyes greener than the hills, her voice like Spring. I have found my favorite place to visit.
  • Past my hometown, past my own tongue, past the yellowing pages of my schoolbooks. I have not written something historic but I have loved something fierce. If that’s not worth writing down, I don’t know what is.
  • A missionary, who has not found god, but has found home. We have that in common.
  • A song being sung by a boy wearing no shoes and one smile. He has fallen in love and it will be the worst thing to ever happen to him. I am sorry for that song still stuck in your head Giuseppe.