My Dad would often tell me that he was sad about how he never got his Father’s Day. Father’s wasn’t an event in Russia, unlike here. No culture is perfect. And you can’t compare apples and oranges, so it’s not like we can say on culture is better than another. Nevertheless, my dad was lacking a Father’s Day celebration, although we did celebrate him within our family, he was just sad that he didn’t get the same standards in treatment as Mum was on Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day is really big in Russia. It’s celebrated on March 8^th as international Mother’s Day, technically women’s day, which was technically not international. The real Mother’s Day was at the end of November, like 22^nd 0r 28^th or something. I’m fairly certain we did the concerts in November. They blend closer onto one, its’ hard to remember what order they came in, but they are precious memories.

The first one for some reason I don’t remember the actual performance, but we made a concert and we brainstormed as a class our own idea of what to do. Singing, dancing. Well, the first year it was mostly Vera that organised it. I remember us nervously practicing the nursery rhymes, “as if it were the real thing”.  

Once year later on we did one of my favourite songs. It’s called Дружба – Friendship. I can sort of remember the words. I’ll post them tomorrow. We had learnt it in music and had all sang it at the end of the concert. I asked Mum afterwards if she liked it, and she said it was beautiful. I sang this song under my breath on the plane, feeling immensely sad. I think this was the time when we left.

My forehead plastered against the window, tears silently streaming down my face, as the clouds swallowed the land, which was shrinking by the second, fading away. I caught my last glimpses of it in overwhelming sorrow, wanting to preserve it. But many dreams were buried in my heart the day, one the saddest days of my life. Perhaps the saddest day of my life. Well, yet. I hope to keep it that way.

If those dreams were seeds and they got lost in the soil as someone scratched to deeply, do you suppose they’ll grow deeper roots once they eventually resurface? If they don’t wither. Dreams are like that. Seeds. You water them, you give them attention, n they grow. But if you don’t, they’ll become an edition to the soil of your heart. Some seeds seemed as good as dead and then started growing, then others grow confidently and then suddenly shrivel. Sometimes we water the plants on our own. Sometimes God rains on them, nurturing them quietly until we discover an exquisite daisy which had penetrated the loam of out hearts. But God rains a lot on some plants, not so much on others. All I can say is, God’s got a green thumb so it’s a good idea to leave the gardening up to him. He’ll stick a few seeds in on his own, if you let him.

Yeah, I’ve strayed a bit. Anyways, I tell you more about Mother’s Day tomorrow.