«Birds of Passage»

I am twelve years old. I’m on the roof of the outbuildings at my grandmother’s in Kalmykia. Apricots hang in clusters and fall, spreading across the slate. Inside they are even richer than outside. It’s impossible to gather them all; they’ll lie there until they turn into a chocolate mush under the scorching sun. From my grandfather’s dovecote I watch the grown-ups go about their business in the yard — or maybe I’m hiding so as not to help around the house. The house was sold long ago, my grandparents are no longer with us, nor are my mum and dad, and yet I so want to come down from the roof and sweep the cracked concrete paths free of dust and apricots.