For my babushka
Today, as always on the first of June, I’m thinking of my babushka. She reminds me of walking barefoot in the southern steppe, of the smell of thyme and chamomile, of touching kovyl and how it dances in the wind, making waves in the air.
The food she cooked just for us, her hands covered in flour.
Her hands — rough and soft at once. Rough from decades of working the soil.
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She tried to teach us, too, when we were kids. I hated being out in the heat, working while my friends played. Now I have my own garden, and everything I know — I know from her.
I planted lilacs, thyme, and chamomile to be reminded of her.
I practice yoga as she taught me.
I swim in cold waters, rushing straight in, to find joy.
And when it’s hard — I sing. Because one should always sing to make the road easier.
