It has already been two years since you left back, but I still keep warm memories of our acquaintance. Every time I pass by your house, I remember the little gift you left for me around that corner on the day of your departure. Every time I want to write to you there, across thousands of kilometers, to thank you for our acquaintance — but these days, it seems I no longer have the possibility to do so. How strange it is to think that in an age when spacecrafts fly to the Moon and Mars, neither letters, nor phone calls, nor text messages reach the country that is on the same planet as me.
Although, if I could write to you, what would I tell you? The stories of those you met during your time here and their reasons for leaving. About the interesting people who discovered Paraguay and their reasons for staying. Or perhaps about the Festival of Immigrants — do you remember, you took part in it too? This year the girls are sewing sundresses, embroidering kokoshniks, and rehearsing a dance, involving the entire Russian-speaking community in the preparations and stirring up our little town with their ideas.
I would tell you about the beautiful places we did not manage to visit together. About the photo shoots I made in the same places where you and I once were. About the birds, cats, and flowers I was lucky enough to photograph. And about my creative projects — do you remember our heated arguments? We could have broken more than one spear arguing about the best way to express the author’s message.
I wander through the streets of red stone on hot days and remember that you do not like the heat. Sitting at a cafe table, I think about how many cups of coffee we never managed to drink together. And how we absolutely should have lazily lain on the pier, watching the water lilies bloom.
Looking at my reflection in the shop windows along the way, I think about how much I have changed over the last few years. It seems my hair has grown long, like the wild greenery in Paraguayan front gardens. Perhaps a few new wrinkles have appeared — and new pieces of jewelry gifted by an incredible craftswoman who accidentally found herself in Paraguay. How my pants have faded under the subtropical sun and my sneakers have become soaked with red dust on this journey in search of myself.
I do not know whether we will ever meet again on this planet. If we do, we will certainly recognize each other — by our worn-out appearance and the thirst for discovery in our eyes. And we will tell each other all the amazing stories that happened along our way.
