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You never wanted to leave. You didn’t. It was necessity. Evacuated with your children before they polyhedron fell, before the town fell. Evacuated to a room in the capital, four walls, two beds, a fireplace, a stove. Large enough for the four of you, soon five, to feel safe, to feel together. Small enough for tensions to rise, for you to grow closer. To become a family, somehow.
You wake before him, before Stanislav, before the children. Like how your father made you, so many times. There are no herbs now, not really, not here. Perhaps inside each of you, enough to feel your hearts beat in tandem. Your little family.
The fireplace is lit enough to cast gold onto your little home, dim enough not to wake the others. It is warm enough that it is not a shock when you slide out from under the covers, from him. You stand, someone stirs but doesn’t wake. You pull his wool sweater over your arms and leave, quietly.
Walk down the apartment stairs, quietly.
You go outside to where there aren’t any herbs, not anymore. But the sun still illuminates the clouds before it breaches the horizon. The horizon that isn’t visible to you, not beyond the buildings, but you know it has risen from how its rays become brighter, warmer. Not warm enough to melt the snow, but warm still.
You walk back upstairs, quietly.
He is still asleep, so is your son. Your daughter waits patiently at your little table, candle already lit, crayons already in hand. You scold her for using matches on her own, she tells you she isn’t a baby. But she still is, still should be. You kiss her forehead.
You walk over to him where he sleeps. Your run your hand over his head, soft fuzz, where it meets his skin, where it meets his scars. He opens an eye, the color of clay.
Tea? – as soft as your hand touches his head.
He smiles up at you, more with his eyes than his mouth, and nods. You smile back and walk to your little kitchen. You set water to boil, for tea, for porridge. With the prospect of food, the family is awake. He brings up the curtain on the only small window and you are able to see the full form of the sun, unobscured. Behind him, the star in the sky that shines through the clouds.
Water boils like a train steam whistle, like the one that brought you here. You were distracted, your son is already awake and is pouring oats into the water to cook. You hush him away, he tells you he isn’t a child. But still is, still should be.
You set another, smaller pot to boil. Your son hadn’t known you meant to make tea. You look to Stanislav and see him trapped between two glimmering planes, dust inside, snow falling outside. He is dressing, setting the beds, stroking the fire.
He looks to you, his eyes before clay, now sand. Like the marshes in the steppe. Where there were once herbs, not anymore. Perhaps when the light hits his iris, at an angle enough to set in motion the photosynthetic reaction. Sometimes you think you see it, just the buds, then he blinks.
When the sun melts the snow, there are herbs, but not those ones. Not the ones your father would wake you for, the ones that could save lives. Each apical bud you see makes you falter, makes you stop and stare, and then you blink.
You ride home with him, your son, your daughter. The tram is cramped, but still you hold the children closer, you and him. A family. You arrive home, your children play outside on the concrete, with the insects on the buds between its cracks. You set the groceries away, hide the sweets you bought for them.
He is looking to you now. Your eyes, once the color of the blue shawl he would wear, now the color of the sky. Where it meets the horizon, where the steppe rivers meet sand. He sets his hand on your cheek, soft fuzz, where it meets your skin, where it meets your scars, where it meets your lips. Your eyes together, the water, the soil. From how he smiles at you, the sunlight. You think you see stems in the crinkles of his eyes, and then he kisses you, and your eyes close.
You never wanted to leave. You didn’t. It was necessity. An education, father said. Then why had he woken you early, each morning? For those herbs. Father taught him instead, transferred his sins to him. When you left, he hated you for it. You never blamed him. When you returned, he hated you for it. You never blamed him. So much time between you, stolen and missed. When you left together, the hate was left behind, given back to the time stolen from you. There was no room for it within your four walls, within the space between you.
In the night, you hear footsteps. Above you, the top floor above you that doesn’t exist. He hears them too. The children don’t. Don’t hear the ghost's gruff voice, how it shouts, how it bellows, how it cries. Wouldn’t understand the words it speaks. You lie awake with him, quietly.
You look to him, his button eyes look back. Then you blink, and the color of the steppe sand is there. River meeting bank. Where herbs once grew, not anymore, not there. But they are here, where your eyes meet, where his arm comes over you, where he drapes the old heirloom blanket over your shoulders. They are there, where his shoulders freckle in the summer, the soil on which they grow. Where your head tucks under his, their roots emerge.
Here, you can be there. Beneath the stars, surrounded by those herbs your father would wake you up for. You, there, surrounded by stone pillars. Facing a small fire. Your friends are there, not here, not anymore. Only sand and river are left. A fractured ecosystem, but succession will proceed, slowly, surely.
He is whispering something to you. Something sweet, in a language you were made to forget. Your eyes are wet, but you are quiet. His eyes are wet too. Rivers saturating the soil.
You peer around him to look at your children, your family, where your roots have spread. To your herbs, the ones you wake up early for. The little family you made. You hold him tighter, he holds you tighter. A riparian you are, together, and your eyes close.