Sitting on the roof of our house, under the stardust late at night, I come to think of what he said about flying. He told me about his childhood and how he would climb up on the roof of his family's house and just sit there alone for hours. The sky would change over his head, summer clouds would come and go while he listened to the silence and the whispering wind in the trees behind him. He said he felt free and imprisoned at the same time, like the heavens were open if he had only had wings to fly with. He told me how close he came to trying anyway, that maybe it would all be worth if just for that hundredth of a second where you defy gravity.
Under the stardust late at night I can feel it too, and it makes the blood freeze in my veins.
In mother's diary:
We're on the train now, after two whole days of controls, questions and phone calls we were finally allowed to leave Moscow. I lay awake at night just watching him sleep, listening to the sound of him breathing and the steel tracks beneath us. We could be going anywhere, I wouldn't care, just being close to him is enough, but I wish I could get over this quiet anxiety. I see it in his eyes sometimes when he looks out the window, as if he's not really watching that harsh landscape that's rapidly passing outside in the dark. His mind is somewhere else and I can't go there with him, at least not yet. If he would only let me in, but I guess I'm not making it easier by never asking what he's thinking of. Maybe tomorrow.