Photo Story: Defector
The postcards came creased, tobacco-stained, stamped Minsk, Irkutsk, and Krasnoyarsk. Ink bloomed in clouding steam as I stirred bubbling beets, hand on my belly, squinting at Yuri’s scrawl. He was studying, translating for the Ministry of Information. What, he wouldn’t say, or couldn’t. Outside, leaves shriveled, crunching. My belly filled. Postcards trickled, then stopped. Kiev. Moscow. Nothing. I rubbed my belly, wrapped myself in scarves. Scanning frequencies, I huddled by the radio, shivering. Then two weeks later, tucked in a shipment of sardines: a card. An office with balloons, marked New York. Arrived, he’d scrawled. Declared myself. Knelt, kissed earth.
Photo Credit: Jonathan Boeke
Masterful!
Thanks so much Chris, that really means a lot. I’m honored. Thanks for reading my story here.
This is heartbreakingly beautiful. I ache for your speaker.
Thanks so much Patricia, I’m honored. And thanks for reading my story.
Beautiful. Very interesting interpretation. Really nice, very creative!!
Thanks so much for your comments Maeve, I really appreciate it.
Very colorful. Lots of life in those few words. Well done.
Thank you very much Bill, I really appreciate you reading my story.