He would sit at his desk
Wrinkled skin, white hair
eyes fluttering as he dozed in and out.
Russian at his core, like ***** on the rocks everyday for 50 years, like spokoynoy nochi and a kiss before bed. His voice, rough and grouchy like sandpaper, yet sometimes sentimental and soft as he would tell of his youth spent meeting movie stars or of his trips across the world. He always enamored me with his stories which he told with a glimmer in his eye and a chuckle in his throat.
I couldn't always please him with my unruly hair, quirky fashion sense, and lackluster cooking, but he always chose to love me and show that he enjoyed my presence.
As a child I pretended to take care of him with my doctor kit and on that day I wished for it to just be a child's game once again. I wished that I could kiss his boo boos and wipe them away as if it were magic.
I wish I could sit next to him and ask him advice one more time. I wish I could hear more stories of his glory days.
But I have ***** on the rocks, and spokoynoy nochi running through my head before bed to remember him by.
