Revolution

It was the year 1900. The weather was cold despite it being the month of August. If there was one thing I learned from being born in the Soviet Union, it’s always cold. I can still remember that night. I was maybe two or three and our small house was for the most part silent. I don’t know what woke me up, but I crawled out of bed, my small feet brushing against the damp carpet. I clung to the walls, afraid that I might slip and fall. The hall seemed like it stretched for miles and then finally the crowded living room was in full view. The table was knocked over and chairs were pushed out of their usual spot. Faintly I could hear panting.

“Momma,” I said, my high voice carrying over to the woman who was sprawled out on the floor, clutching her stomach. She didn’t respond as she moaned. Her eyebrows knitted together as sweat matted her damp brown hair to her face. Her back arched and she cried and something else was crying with her. She reached around and clutched the small figure. I hesitantly approached curious of it was.

“Mica,” momma whispered, “his name is Mica.” She smiled at him as her breathing returned to normal. I looked at the naked baby in her arms. He’s beautiful, I remember thinking. I stared at his silver blue eyes that reminded me of a frozen lake. Mica looked at me and his crying ceased as the corners of his small mouth curved into a shy smile. I smiled back.

“Welcome Mica,” I said and reached for his tiny hand that instantly wrapped around my thumb. “Welcome to our family.”