Romance about Immigration

vacation for the Orthodox Easter, although there is a lot of work. Over the phome we arrange with my girlfriend when, who, what and how; we have not seen each other for a long time as we no longer live next door. For Christmas we failed because of some ilnesses, then there were impassable snows, then children's vacation, now there are no excuses.

- This time you are coming for sure, right?

- Coming of course, I told you that I have taken a vacation! Good time to bring you back the book as well!

- Oh, wait, I have prepared a new one for you! Remember you recommended me the author, now his second one is out, I bought you a copy! We'll talk later! Call me Saturday, I am working on something urgent.

We will not talk on Saturday because on Friday her husband will call me and say, get a piece of paper and write that down as you may forget. On Monday, the funeral mass is at ten at the Russian church, at twelve the burial is at the Cossack cemetery. It is sixty kilometers to there, but snowstorm is promised for later in the afternoon.

I am standing in front of the door I know perfectly well and cannot gether my courage to ring the bell. Until the door is closed, I can still try to fool myself that all this is a childish cruel joke, that the door will open like during all the last ten years, my girlfriend will laugh and say, oh waw, people always say that they have no time and here they suddenly found some, come in, we will have tea! The doors opens, a woman who I know from some photos stands at the treshold and says, you are probably frozen solid, come in, I will make you a tea!

"It looks so much like Russia yet Russia it is not..." In Rawdon once upon a time Cossacks came and they are still there. What wind had blown them so far away, I do not know. There is a small cemetery chapel with a bulbous dome and Orthodox cemetery. The gravestones read like a history of Russian emigration and with the birches among the pines it really looks like Russia. Having taken the wrong higway exit and driving madly after it a few of us find ourselves at the cemetery before the hearse. Rawdon is higher in the mountains, the city is dry, here the snow is knee deep. Despite the promise of more snow, a biting winter sun is shining. Tiny birds are jumping and telling their little stories to each other through the undergrowth. We are exchanging memories and standing.

The priest has read all prayers. The funeral agents have lowered the coffin into the grave, along with few rose bouquets, and had stepped back delicately at enough distance to be seen without their presence to feel intruding. And we stand. And they stand. And we stand. And they stand. Waiting for something. Their profession requires endless patience and compassion which go together with the dark overcoats and black ties. The gray clouds above us, however, promise snow and quickly. Something must be done.

- Sorry to bother you, can you tell us when you will c