I am from color pencils, from dusty city playgrounds and grass between my toes.
I am from the tiny apartment with a view of a wide wide river in a big northern city.
I am from strict rules and perseverance, from Ivan who fought in the Great war and Elizaveta who survived the occupation, and from Natalya who scraped wallpaper for food and waited for Leonid to come back from the same war.
I am from stubbornness and melancholy.
From never tell a lie and finish every bit on your plate.
I am from hiding to read the bible and being Christened only before leaving the country.
I'm from Peter's window to the west, tea with lemon and honey and potatoes with herring.
From the parents who left everything and everyone to try and secure a better future for their children, the grandmother who grieved till the day she died, and the aunt who was left to care for all the elderly and dying.
I am from suitcases filled with black and white photos and memories, watercolor sketches in albums with poetry and carved wood boxes filled with treasured trinkets and broken jewelry.
I had seen variations of this lovely exercise on a few blogs, most notably on Kristin's, Susie's and Terry's. I have wanted to try writing this for a while and have finally come up with words that I like. If I wait anymore I'll probably come up with something different entirely. Maybe I'll come up with it anyway... hope you enjoyed it..
Evidence of artmaking will be seen here soon...