Saturday Morning Lunch
I was sitting on concrete with lunch and a black cat when a man sauntered up to our front door. He called my host mother’s name, and I leaned out of the shadow of the summer house to summon his attention: “Anna Nikolaevna’s not home right now.”
The first thing that struck me was his smile, replete with silver grills. The second thing was his warmth.
Sundry Travels 