Talking to Myself Thirty-Three August 2, 2020

Talking to Myself Thirty-Three August 2, 2020

I remember Schelykovo. You 

took me there that first week.

We saw the house, carefully

preserved, of Russia’s playwright,

loved and honored as our Shakespeare.

We went into a peasant house, sat 

on the benches against the walls,

visited the pool where the Snow Maiden 

died, wetted our faces for a long

life, if not an immortal one. Your

friend Yuri knew him personally,

was scolded and influenced by the

great man. And I, at an age you 

never reached, still have my

students. How much longer will

I influence them, scold them, and

praise them? In some ways I was

the peasant woman you longed

for but less submissive, more

outspoken. Someone to cherish 

while keeping your distance. Still,

we had those moments. We stood

outside ourselves, we communed. 

No one noticed at first, We sat on

rocks in a stream bed. You prayed

to a tree that it wouldn’t rain. Each

day I get older, but you stay the

same. Your life is trapped in

eternity, but we each have a wing,

and who knows where and when

we’ll be together again.

Photo of the front of Schelykovo by Vera Belikh.