I remember Mom bringing you home to our Moscow apartment, a tiny life wrapped in a white blanket. We shared a bunk bed for years. You threw yourself to the floor, a temper tantrum — Grandma wanted you to take your summer reading seriously. We both longed for our absent fathers. You often expressed yourself fully, and I envied your fearlessness. I played a good girl: disciplined, wounded, inhibited. I moved far away. We grew apart. Until you unearthed our old pictures, mailing them for my birthday. And there we were: My hand steadfast on my little sister’s shoulder. — Gloriia Novikova
Positively Purging-I welcome your feedbacks in the comments and your likes and passing the real life wisdom on to others as I embark on this new venture of “positively purging“, as I know each of these pieces represents something…
