The two boys with mean eyes get up and start to come over. One of them’s sheepish and focused and kind of angelic if you think about it. The other one’s only got one eye, and he’s walking like he’s been sent by God. My whole body’s a bad feeling.
I get up and follow Sveta’s lead.
DOSTOYEVSKY
We’re at their house. The cute boys. The empty Bacardi bottle spins and spins and spins and lands on us. So I scooch up and Sveta scooches up and we kiss in front of the boys. Sveta acts shy. She’s a fucking tease. She opens her eyes while she has her fucking tongue in my mouth and looks over at that fucking cyclops. I hope his fucking cock explodes. Svetlana is embarrassed by me. By my big mouth. I fucking hate her too. I’m glad, I’m glad, I’m glad we’re both going to die.
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
I don’t know why I keep remembering this moment. It’s fall. Before the bell for first period. I remember rushing to Sveta in the hall. She promised to give me her notes on Crime and Punishment. She hands me her notebook and I copy them super fucking quickly. I give them back and she smirks at me. Thanks, I say. You’re welcome, she says. We smile at each other for a long fucking time.
LOVE
We are still in the hallway, smiling at each other, smiling, smiling, smiling, as our hair turns gray.
THE SONG I SING TO MYSELF IN PRISON
7-Eleven Big Gulp. My acrylic nails. Svetlana’s eyes filled with my face. These are a few of my favorite things…
BOYFRIEND
Sveta would go gaga for him. Suburban white boy acting all thug-life.
Svetochka, I can still feel you smiling at me.
CRAZY MAMA
I told her I don’t need a mama. Especially a crazy mama.
She’s fucked up and dull as a spoon.
Sometimes I can’t stop thinking about her.
Something like missing, something like needing, something like the blank soreness that comes after rage.
When she tells me a joke, I get these feelings.
I’m light-hearted and terrified, Crazy Mama.
CRAZY MAMA
MY DIMOCHKA
This is how it happened. I had just put more sun cream on my Dimochka. He wasn’t like his friends, Apollos. He was white as a page. He burnt so easily. I had said, Dimochka, come here, let me put more sun cream on you. He said, Oh, Mama. He didn’t want to leave the shore and his friends. But Dimochka was a good boy. He came to his mama. He didn’t fuss about as I put the cream on. He let me be very thorough. Then of course he had to sit next to me to let it sink in. He didn’t complain. His friends were rough-housing on the shore. Dima sat on his towel and poked his finger in the sand. I said, Dimochka, zaichik, what are you drawing in the sand? The figure had a curious form. A star, Mama, Dima said to me.
I followed the grooves in the sand.
I TRIED MY BEST TO RAISE HIM TO BE A GOOD PERSON
No one was religious back then. Religion had stopped with my parents, rest their souls.
I never, never showed Dimochka a star with six points. All the stars we drew together had five points. Normal stars. Safe stars.
I DIDN’T WANT TO DRAW ATTENTION TO IT
I replied in a half-voice, A star…
I kept my eyes on the sand, because I wasn’t sure what emotion would happen if I lifted them.
STOICISM
Mercy.
A TRICK
To keep life going.
DIMOCHKA’S SUN CREAM HAD SOAKED INTO HIS PALE BODY
I rubbed the sand off my palms. You can go now, moy khoroshinki, I told him.
His little eyes grew cheerful. He waved to his friend and began running toward the shore.
When he was gone, I wiped the drawing from the sand.
I looked back up and took two deep breaths. There we go. My eyes focused on my Dimochka. He was splashing about with the other boys in a beautiful fury.
THE ORIGIN
I remember thinking how blessed he is that such a fury, in him, is a kind-natured one. If he were a mean-spirited boy, with such fury, he could destroy a whole world. (When I was pregnant with him, I often worried about this. What if my child is born with the wrong kind of fury?)
MAMA, MAMA
Then I heard him yelling my way from the shore.
MAMA, WE’RE GOING TO GO SWIMMING!
Such a good boy. He knew to ask me before going out into the water. I nodded and out he went.
MY GOOD BOY
Out he went, out into the water with a beautiful fury.
HIS PAPA
When my husband, Dimochka’s father, passed away, Dima was two. I told myself, Oksana, you get yourself together. Oksana, you have a child to look after.
MY PARENTS
They had both passed when I was a little girl and left me and my older sister. It wasn’t that uncommon. Or at least in our community. We couldn’t complain. There were many orphans back then.
BY NATURE
I am not one who complains.
BUT THERE ARE THINGS THAT REMAIN PAINFUL
It’s hard, still, to talk about my husband’s departure. Forgive me if I cannot utter his name. He became, simply, Papa. To Dimochka he was Papa. To me, without Dimochka, he was no more. And so, at times, I talked about Papa. How Papa used to be. What Papa had looked like. How Dimochka looked like his Papa. Papa, yes, yes, yes. There would always be Papa. I had enough in me for that.
THE ACCIDENT
I don’t want to describe the accident. It was an accident.
THE SEA
Yes, I still remember the sea. Remembering the sea is not impossible. At times, it is even its own body. Not the mass that
