Issky Dat You, Boris?

In my hand I have a bright pink envelope, the color of an Indian Holi festival; you know, the one where everyone is tossing colored powders up in the air and at each other, then they run out and get an elephant and cover that with an auroral blaze till the animal is as groggy and befuzzed as the people.  Bunch of people hootin' and hollerin', hepped up on Bhang and water balloons full of color.  Like that. Or a Barbie birthday envelope.  This envelope is Barbie pink.

The return address is from someone I didn't know, in a place I never go to; there was a Forever stamp of heart-shaped red swirls; sealing the flap was a heart sticker in rainbow shades.  Who do I know named Elizabeth and is gay?  A rainbow outside is a beautiful thing, a rainbow inside is a beautiful thing as well, but in my world mostly indicates gay.  Am I getting hit on for a LGBT donation?  This is a very thin envelope, is there anthrax inside?  Do I open this?  Send me a Barbie pink letter, and I am full of suspicion as this happens every once in a never.

Holding the envelope up to the light does nothing, the return address label is decorated with a pair of flip flops; WHO ARE YOU?  I get my sharpest scissors and slice off the end, ready to stab anything that jumps out.  Oh.  It's an invitation to Brian and Dana's wedding shower, on computer paper edged with balloons.  "Gifts of fun and laughter, for their happy ever-after!  RSVP to Bette."

This has happened before, a situation that ignites a panther-nervous-nosey anxiety in my brain, and I am ready to swat, claws extended.  My son, the aforementioned Bri, went to Russia during high school as an American Field Service exchange student.  He was with a family for a short stay in October 1993, the year the tanks were rolling into Moscow amid street brawls and firefights.  Thank heavens he was just south of Moscow, but the atmosphere in the country was trepidacious, which it usually is anyway; these doings, however, were being reported on American news programs, elevating the status to crisis intervention level.  Sure, Russia!  Great idea! But why were they told to duct tape their luggage shut?

The Russian October is like our November, and the heat and hot water don't arrive until The Government turns it on; washing dishes was a rinse under the cold tap, couldn't waste fuel for heating dishwater.  Showers?  You can guess.  Each of the exchange students were able to call home once; this was when phone calls were sputtery and voices waved in and out like ghosts.  Russian time is seven hours ahead, so when he called me to say hello, it was three in the morning, and I was heavily asleep, courtesy of Ambien.  I fought to become awake and could feel adrenaline pumping.  Hello?

"You have a call from Brian, are you willing to accept?"  My heart was in my throat, he was alive on the other side of the world.  Yes, yes, yes. "Hello, Mom?" Snapping static made it difficult to hear him, he sounded far away, were those voices behind him?  Was he kidnapped?  Was this really my son?  I wanted proof.

"BRI?  BRIAN?"  I wanted a question that only he would have the answer to,  I was super clever Mom and able to outwit these Russians holding him for ransom.

"WHAT KIND OF FISH DO YOU HAVE IN YOUR AQUARIUM?"  Ooh, good one.

14 year old Brian: "What? Mom?"

"TELL ME WHAT KIND OF FISH YOU HAVE IN YOUR AQUARIUM." Or maybe you are a replica Russian Brian, trying to get my Social Security number so you can break into my bank account and get the $400 I have in there.  Gimme the answer, you.

Brian: "Mom, I don't have much time.  Everyone is looking at me.  I have an angelfish."

"YOU SURE YOU'RE BRIAN?"  It kinda sounded like him, but I wasn't convinced.  Of course the voice would answer yes, I was trying to think of another question.  This is remembered clearly, and it was going to involve relatives.

"Mom, I'm okay.  It's me."

"BRIAN?  WHAT'S YOUR NICKNAME?"  I'm hard to convince. Talking loudly might help Russia hear me.

"Buzz.  Mom, are you alright?"

"BRI?  THIS IS REALLY YOU?  OH, BRIAN! IT'S TERRIFIC TO HEAR YOU"

"I'm fine Mom.  The people are nice here.  We're going to The Hermitage tomorrow."

"I'M SO PROUD OF YOU, BE HELPFUL WITH THE FAMILY YOU'RE WITH.  PICK UP AFTER YOURSELF AND HELP WITH THE DISHES."

"I am, but Mom, my time's up and I gotta go.  I love you."

"I LOVE YOU TOO, HONEY.  I LOVE YOU.  SO MUCH."

"I love you, too. 'Bye Mom." He sounded relieved to be hanging up.

I lay in the bed glowing that I was able to talk to him, but upon reflection, wondered what the heck was the matter with me that I thought Russians had confangled the telephone lines and were pretending to be my son.  And could I have come up with a different question?  Fish, for god's sake.  Could you not have just told the kid how great it was to hear him? I spent more time playing Tricky Mom vs. the Russians than listening to him.  I still feel a bit bad, even though we laugh about it now.  He later told me that everyone could tell by his face that something was wrong, but in truth, it was quite right.  Call me at three a.m. and find out.  No more Ambien, but the wheels keep turning.

The sun is headed to the other side of this sphere now, as the great immensity turns on axis, still powered from the cosmic collapse that happened 4.6 billion years ago.  When the gaseous cloud collapsed under its own weight, eddies of dust and gasses spun off into planets as those materials came together and solidified.  Like a skater that pulls in their arms, the speed increased as the earth formed.  Now, we have divided that space into twenty-four hours for living between each sunrise.

Oh, I wish you to sleep on this airy, light spring evening; check under the bed for Russians.  They're friendly.  Dobroj noči.  Good night.