I was held down by the wrists behind a spring house two evenings ago, with the girls locked in a car out of sight, but thankfully I am not delicate and I fought hard enough to break away. Spanish farmers dress their scarecrows in their own old clothes and panama hats, and for two days I've been scared even of scarecrows. Now I am going back to Moscow a month early (somehow feels familiar, this frantic navigating of cheerful vacation websites with shaking fingers, rushing through the name-date-passport forms toward that six-digit confirmation number that says we can leave, we can leave). Perhaps home to the states soon after that. This ostensibly jetsetting life is taking too heavy a toll on the little ones I love, human and animal. I feel today that everyone precious should be close enough to hold, otherwise they wander into trouble the moment you turn your back, and then cannot be saved.
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