The Russian Dreambook Of Color And Flight - Plot & Excerpts
It was the fault of all this water sleeting the one and only window in the entire basement of the All-Russia Museum that Tanya careened toward a lethargic contemplation of the sky, the rain falling from the sky. Neither white nor black, it wasn't even grey. Valueless. Odd that something so ordinary and important as water dropping from the sky carried no colour. So unlike the virulent hues her grandmother remembered in the days when the mines and smelters to the south released their char and glow and ash into the air. Tanya nibbled on the end of her pencil. In evening the sky, you said, this sky you loved and hated, burned magenta. The ash separated into belted colours of hurt and glory, then quieted to a smoulder of brake dust and chaff. In evenings, while you'slept, you rose buoyant in your dreams. With your hollow bones and skin of paper you flew, like a Crane, like a kite. I listened to you breathe, to your rattles, knocks and whistles. I stood below your dreaming, holding a string around your ankle, reading the sky through your skin, that parchment of those letters you and I have memorized all these years together.
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