They grabbed my father, dragging him across Terminosova Boulevard to the Metro. And disappeared. A babushka was selling vegetables laid out on sheets of Pravda. I don’t recall my last sight of him. Only a courgette rising from Lenin’s fist. I’m told by those that speak to me, he’s in Novosibirsk. I count the kilometres between us, the days without him, the buttons on my tailored overcoat and the hours before my next promotion.
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First published on Paragraph Planet on 22 February, 2021.
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