Kiev was etched in my memory as a gray city. The skies were obscured, and the snow never ceased. I sat down to eat at a central café. A waitress with a faint smile continually brought more and more items. Shopping centers and department stores were crowded. The noise of people filled the spaces, and the rustling of young women's nylon stockings was constant. I felt like an outsider. I wasn’t as radiant as the women there. Their style was meticulous, and their fingernails were painted. Nevertheless, their faces were melancholic.    I walked through the streets. Children threw stale bread into the Dnieper River, and souvenir stalls lined every corner. The food markets were difficult to stomach. Flies rested on a pig carcass in the center of the space, large dogs lay among the stalls, and elderly people counted coins with trembling hands.

I returned to the city a decade after my father’s death, to comfort my grandmother. Her house was dusty. The rugs emitted the smell of - plaster.

The furniture was heavy, made of wood. The bookshelf was crammed with holy books and icons of Mary and Jesus. A dozen candles burned day and night. On the ceiling, I found cobwebs, in the corner of the room there were moldy crumbs, and on the window, there were dry streaks of leakage.

The front yard was desolate. The trees were still bare. There was no trace of the sun. I wandered through the streets and felt as if he was watching me from the faces of strangers. Thus, I created a renewed encounter with him.

 The front yard was desolate. The trees were still bare. There was no trace of the sun. I wandered through the streets and felt as if he was watching me from the faces of strangers. Thus, I created a renewed encounter with him. He didn’t like routine—it extinguished him.

 Every time I looked at him, he seemed to be lost in deep thoughts. The two cigarette packs he used to smoke daily dwindled to a few puffs. Many images were etched in my memory. During his illness, his eyebrows often furrowed in anger. And so did my stomach.