She wouldn’t be leaving Russia now, she said, though she often thought she would.
I try to imagine the house in 1944—her lithe and tanned,
listening to the radio, teaching her son mathematics, while her husband
spent the days trying to reach his dead brothers.
The summer grass yellowing in the meadows behind.
She was catching crayfish with her son when he finally understood
that the afterlife is what we leave in others.
(This poem is taken from the light user scheme)