The first morning of May, mother sweeps through the kitchen like an aging ballerina, a warm spring breeze draped in ivory white chiffon. Her mood has two settings, manically happy and apathetically sad, the invisible border is always just a glass of Madeira away.
I once swore I would never be like her, but in many ways I already am. We're both building cocoons around us to protect ourselves from the sunlight of the outside world, mother started before me and has lived in her emotional isolation for as long as I can remember.
Whenever I dare to look deep into her Russian eyes from across the breakfast table I can always see the contours of a butterfly, patiently waiting to escape from the sadness.