Small Joys Of Life That Make You Feel Alive (Elena’s story)

The day my mom brought me home from the hospital, my sister Galina fed me a full teaspoon of sugar which almost killed me.

She was two years old. What did she know? It would be another twenty-three years until she graduated from medical school and became a pediatrician.

I think my parents' lives would have been so much easier if they had only Galina without me. There was a big difference in Soviet Russia to raise one kid or two.

My mom wanted to do just that, being burdened with the thought of having a second baby when they barely could provide for one. Mom had her abortion scheduled while pregnant with me, but then changed her mind, and that is how I was born.

Fifty years later, when I was already an American writer, I shared that sordid fact at one of my book signings, and a guy commented from his chair, “Please pass on a thank you to your mom for skipping that abortion.”

Mom would have loved that feeling, but I'm not sure if she would fully understand his message because of Alzheimer's. She still lives in Tula.

My sister Galina, who retired from being a pediatrician, takes care of mom full-time because she is a good Russian daughter.

She is doing both her work and mine. She lives with mom in Tula. I live in America. That makes me feel both grateful and guilty at the same time.

I often think of my mom when she was pregnant with me. What would she say if someone had told her that the baby in her belly would become an American one day? I bet she'd say,“Моя деточка? Американка? НЕТ!” (My baby? An American? NO!)

In Tula — one hundred miles south of Moscow — I never saw an American in person. The Soviet media portrayed Americans as repulsive creatures with bulging eyes, puffing on their cigars and exploiting their workers.

Funny though, at age 33, I got my first American man friend who quickly became my husband. I met Dan through the pen pal club and it was love at first letter.

I ponder how my life would turn out if I had stayed in Russia. For sure, I would have had kids. The question is how many?

By now, I'd be a Russian grandmother, a sad-looking, fat lady, with dusty sacks of potatoes in the kitchen and jars of marinated vegetables on my balcony.

I'd spend my days in a large dilapidated chair, with diabetic legs stuffed into a pair of worn-out slippers, knitting wool socks, or needle-pointing cotton napkins.

I don’t know why my Russian version of myself looks to me this way. Perhaps, I want to convince myself that I made the right choice by marrying an American, even though my husband died ten years ago leaving me to fend for myself. We didn't have kids.

Maybe one day I will find another great love but my heart says that's unlikely.

I met this guy, Norman, during my sleepless Tinder browsing nights.

He lives someplace in California and has a stunning flower garden — roses, dahlias, hibiscus, in rich colors, vibrant, breathtaking.

He said he always plants gardens wherever he lives since his college days and he is in his seventies now.

Sometimes, he texts me pictures. I am visual — give me a great image of something and I will be as happy as if I found a $100 bill.

My favorite photo from those he sent is of his two dogs — a tall black poodle and a small, orange dog that looks like a bottle cleaning brush.

I don't know about Norman. My friend Olga tells me that it’ll take someone much younger to get through this heartache from my American husband's death and fill up the huge empty spot Dan left behind in my heart.

Who knows. All I know is these dogs are adorable.

They pose against what looks like an ancient pear tree with the low-hanging golden pears. Luminous green light is streaming between the tree’s branches.

The black poodle's nose is pressed into a yellow marigold flower on the emerald green grass. The orange dog makes a funny face.

The mere existence of these two dogs makes me happy. Here and now. So, go figure.

Dear Readers, thank you for reading! I write mostly about love. Feel free to share my stories with your loved ones. Special Thanks to Pam Mayer — my tireless friend, editor, and collaborator.