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.
First published on Paragraph Planet on 22 February, 2021.
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