IMOW - Letter from Obuxiv

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Letter from Obuxiv
Cristina Teresa O'Keeffe

United States

GALLERY

CONVERSATION

We’ve lived in Obuxiv for two months. Our empty suitcases still sit in a precise row beneath our desk by the window in our...

The doorbell rings often but I can’t bring myself to open the door. Someone else is always running with a key and I stay back to not interfere with this ritual. I try not to become a burden to a family who seems full of burdens, revealed in bowls of borsch, small doughy verennikies and endless bowls of cookies that beg to be eaten by women with golden teeth.

I sit at a small wooden table in a warm kitchen and am spoken to in a language that I don’t understand. I simply eat and nod at words that sometimes sound familiar but are just an echo of things I used to know. I nod until my head is dizzy. I say: “Yes, yes” never knowing what I am agreeing to.

After dark, I let myself out quietly into the sour-smelling hallway, lying about a necessity in a store that begs my purchase. They don’t understand me and we all smile and pretend that this is normal.

When I make my way back, I see some a look of excitement in the eyes of this family. Someone has tried to contact me. “From America” they repeat again and again. I both love and dread the idea of this communication. I never know if this will make me happier or just sadder that I cannot be at the other end of the line. I pretend not to understand and go to my room, slowly closing the wooden door without making a sound. They see through the tinted glass. They know that I am not sleeping.
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