Regina Saxony
on the topic of exile
And as they walk towards the boat swaying in the harbor, they walk slowly, like the last time they were here. The sky is gray with an impending winter, the streetlights are dim with a flickering hope of something new, something duller than before, but something. She needed something tangible.
Oh how they were so clueless the last time the treaded these concrete paths winding towards the fate beyond what the ocean can see or the clouds can conceal—and even further than what a young man hand-in-hand with a young woman could fathom now or then. It’s undiscernible as the finches and seagulls meander in the skies, weaving in between each other in a fit of squealing song. Regina smiles and Ilya cries. They both carry their suitcases in a steadfast grip as they stroll towards the exile.
“I’ll remember the birch trees,” Ilya frowns, focusing straight ahead, not daring to look back or to his side. He felt Regina shiver while their hands were locked in a vice unbroken, unshaken.
Regina only nodded. She wasn’t sure what she was going to remember, she wasn’t sure if she’d allow herself to remember. It wasn’t so much of a memory, but rather, a longing. A girlish longing that would make it able to come back to her rodina. After the war. After the Bolsheviks. After the world stopped decaying and chipping away like skin on a paper birch in the torrents of spring. And while she could say adamantly she disagreed with the Bolsheviks and communism, she knew that there was no room in the world for tsars and tsarinas—so she couldn’t say she wished it was the way it used to be. It was a rather turbulent thought process that was followed by her moving forward. Each step broke another part of her, for this was her home, her entire composition.
A warmth spreads across her forehead, the birds resorting to flitting around the sidewalks, heads down and simply searching for something of substeance. Regina felt like that. Constantly searching for that one thing. Reeling. “Regina, we’ll come back,” Ilya squeezes her hand.
Regina knows that he is lying, the way his lip twitches when he fibs is unmistakable to her. She knows him and she know the men like Stalin, Ivchenko, and Lenin. They will win and their rodina will be a memory—something painfully real and daunting.
The near the boat, rocking with the sway of the ocean. Sobbing, the suitcase falls from her hand and she embraces Ilya. “This is everything I’ve known,” she cries similar to a scared child.
And Ilya cries too, unable to be a rock for her, the hug each other and bask in their unique brokenness as humanity swirls around them in this vicarious vitality.
Those words flitted around her head.
“Home is not where you are born.”
They reach the boat, both with their faces to the wind. With a final squeeze, they step onto the swaying staircase.
Oh how they were so clueless the last time the treaded these concrete paths winding towards the fate beyond what the ocean can see or the clouds can conceal—and even further than what a young man hand-in-hand with a young woman could fathom now or then. It’s undiscernible as the finches and seagulls meander in the skies, weaving in between each other in a fit of squealing song. Regina smiles and Ilya cries. They both carry their suitcases in a steadfast grip as they stroll towards the exile.
“I’ll remember the birch trees,” Ilya frowns, focusing straight ahead, not daring to look back or to his side. He felt Regina shiver while their hands were locked in a vice unbroken, unshaken.
Regina only nodded. She wasn’t sure what she was going to remember, she wasn’t sure if she’d allow herself to remember. It wasn’t so much of a memory, but rather, a longing. A girlish longing that would make it able to come back to her rodina. After the war. After the Bolsheviks. After the world stopped decaying and chipping away like skin on a paper birch in the torrents of spring. And while she could say adamantly she disagreed with the Bolsheviks and communism, she knew that there was no room in the world for tsars and tsarinas—so she couldn’t say she wished it was the way it used to be. It was a rather turbulent thought process that was followed by her moving forward. Each step broke another part of her, for this was her home, her entire composition.
A warmth spreads across her forehead, the birds resorting to flitting around the sidewalks, heads down and simply searching for something of substeance. Regina felt like that. Constantly searching for that one thing. Reeling. “Regina, we’ll come back,” Ilya squeezes her hand.
Regina knows that he is lying, the way his lip twitches when he fibs is unmistakable to her. She knows him and she know the men like Stalin, Ivchenko, and Lenin. They will win and their rodina will be a memory—something painfully real and daunting.
The near the boat, rocking with the sway of the ocean. Sobbing, the suitcase falls from her hand and she embraces Ilya. “This is everything I’ve known,” she cries similar to a scared child.
And Ilya cries too, unable to be a rock for her, the hug each other and bask in their unique brokenness as humanity swirls around them in this vicarious vitality.
Those words flitted around her head.
“Home is not where you are born.”
They reach the boat, both with their faces to the wind. With a final squeeze, they step onto the swaying staircase.