A woman gives love and life to a special plant Day 1 Dirt shoved its way into the cracks in her hands, and she watched herself bury the little mound of dirt which supposedly had life. A simple trip to her neighbor’s house and here she was. She didn’t even bother to ask what type of plant it was, whether she needed to water the seedling constantly or not. She did not even know why she had agreed to care for it. Still, as she buried the seedling, packaged with its own soil, she began to feel a type of hope. Week 1 The seedling had begun to sprout, and as for the watering, it was even. A little one day, a whole bunch another. It could go a long while as if it were pouring every day, and it could go a long while as if it were in a hot desert. She gave it lots of love. There was resentment too. Week 2 The sprout flourished into sprouts with the beginnings of flowers. She loved her little plant, for it brought her much joy. Now, though, it grew older and ordered more nutrients. It took up the majority of her life, when there were more important things to be done. Still, they lived on. Month 1 The plant now measured a foot tall, and its greenness was a sure sign of ultimate health. It now took new responsibilities, like spreading out its leaves wide so it could gather much sunlight. Other days it shriveled them up and shielded them away from the sun. Its growth patterns changed every day. Sometimes it leaned on its wooden support beside it, other times it stood straight up tall. It changed every day. Month 6 The plant was now almost as tall as the woman who planted it. It was starting to spread out the flower petals beautifully, so that it would attract the bees to come deliver and collect pollen. It swelled with life, and so did the woman. She now put her heart and soul into it; it was her priority now. It was as if the plant was embedded in pure life. It grew all across her yard, and when the night came, it would stretch under a wooden canopy so that it did not get wet from the rain, while its roots soaked in the water. And the woman, who remembered the plant from its seedling days, gave it all it ever needed. Year 1 The plant now stretched over the entire yard. The neighbors were afraid but at the same time amazed. The very same woman who gave the plant’s mother the seeds was surprised to find that it had grown so big. But the plant’s mother loved it no matter what, and therefore it grew and grew. It had big responsibilities now too. Its systems worked together, and slowly its flowers evolved into beautiful fruits: reds, oranges, yellows, and greens. It made each one attractive so that the tiny critters of the yard could eat them and spread the fruit’s seeds around. It was reaching adulthood, but there was a problem: at this point, it could tell that it would be a short time until it stopped living. Year 2 The once little plant is dead. One day the woman came into the yard to water and found a dried brown stalk on the ground. She cried and flung the stalk out of the yard. As she collapsed in sorrow, fresh life met her skin. The offspring of the plant comforted her, saying she’d get through this. This is the way of nature; her little plant just went off earlier than usual. Together, they promised. They would get through this together. Year 3 The woman knows the cycle now. The offspring will be finished in the next year and a half. Steadily, at least. A number of the offspring have already died due to shadows, storms, and other things. None of them are quite as extraordinary as the little plant; they don’t grow to a huge size or produce multicolored fruit, but the woman loves them all the same. She wonders how she is still alive after all this time. Then she reminds herself that her end is coming nearer, and like her beloved little plant, she can sense her end is coming soon. Mountain Year 4 The woman is dead. No one takes her house, for the garden is too wild. As for the offspring, they create offspring and die off. The offsprings’ offspring will become older and will eventually die off too, but not without creating their own offspring. They all sense an absence, though, even the oblivious youngsters. Something is off. The woman doesn’t come and swat the bugs off our leaves, they think. “No,” others say, “It isn’t that she is not coming. It is that she cannot come.” For the Rest of Time The woman’s spirit floated up and above, through the clouds, up into a golden world above. She has achieved much, and is satisfied. But now she looks around for something. Suddenly he appears. With shaggy brown hair and a happy, glowing face he races toward the woman. The woman shows no surprise to this and races toward the boy in turn. They embrace in the center of the afterlife, having not seen each other in a long time. The little boy is the little plant, except he hasn’t always been one. In fact, he never was a plant; he was always a boy, and that was his story.

Misha experiences the first signs of unrest in the Donetsk region of Ukraine Prologue Misha was the one who showed me a dove for the first time. It was early spring, that magical time of year when coats and sunshine go hand in hand. Puddles of rainwater were splotched on every street, reflecting every cloud in the bluest blue sky ever like a thousand mirror shards. We were standing by the old swing set on the hill, the one with the rusted rings and peeling red paint. It was a sad little swing, I always thought; someone had built it a decade ago, alone, in the middle of nowhere, and then forgotten all about it. But that was okay. It was ours, me and Misha’s. I remember thinking that as I stood up on the swing, swaying back and forth slowly as I gained speed. Misha stood next to me, leaning against the yellow metal poles as he thoughtfully bit into a green apple. I followed his gaze to the crooked, solitary birch tree nearby, the only other thing worth seeing on the hill besides the swing. I could hear a clamor of high-pitched voices bickering somewhere in its feeble limbs. “Hey, look!” Misha finally spoke, excitedly pointing at one of the highest branches. “Varya, do you see that?” I squinted, following his finger. On top of the tree, hidden in the vivid leaves, I made out a small white shape. “Is that a white squirrel?” Misha shook his head. “No. Where have you ever seen a white squirrel?” “I read about those.” Skeptical, Misha decided to ignore my comment. “That’s a dove,” he said softly. “A real one. Isn’t it pretty?” I cocked my head, looking up at the figure again. This time I made out a pair of delicate folded wings tucked into the snowy-white feathers, fluttering slightly in the breeze. Two tiny black dots sat above a gray beak, making the dove’s expression seem permanently surprised. “Oh.” I shrugged. “Yeah, I see it now.” Misha kept grinning. Leave it up to him to pay so much attention, I thought as I glanced in his direction. Sometimes he honestly reminded me of a bird himself: messy jet-black hair, big blue eyes, built a bit too scrawny for an eleven-year-old boy at the time. He didn’t look much like me or anyone else in our Ukrainian town of Donetsk, really. I had long blonde hair, amber eyes, and freckles all over my face. No one would ever say that we looked alike, but we felt almost like siblings anyway, growing up together and living in adjacent apartment buildings. “You know what’s cool?” he asked, turning back to me. “Doves are a symbol of peace and freedom, I read. Maybe seeing one is like a good luck charm for us to always be safe and happy.” I rolled my eyes. “That sounds kind of made up. Books aren’t always right.” Misha stepped back, mock offended. “How dare you! Books have the answer to everything.” “Where’d you find that?” “I read it”—Misha sighed—“in a book.” I snorted a laugh, punching him lightly. “All right, all right. Kidding. Let’s pretend this is a good-luck charm.” Misha smiled, glancing at the dove one last time before it spread its wings and hopped off the branch, catching the breeze and soaring away. We watched it for a long time as it disappeared into a barely visible pale speck in the sky, flying high among the clouds. “Ice cream?” Misha suggested, turning to me. “You bet.” Chapter 1 I guess I could say I noticed something strange going on a long time ago. My blurriest, earliest memories began when I was five and Varya was three. Our town wasn’t strictly Ukrainian or Russian. And I never thought of it as being strictly in either country either; it was almost at the border—somewhere there, in between both lands. Many Russian families such as me and my mom lived there and even more Ukrainian ones did too, and it was completely normal. There were no disagreements or fighting. It always felt like one big family to me, holding each other up and looking out for one another. Me and my mom loved going on walks at the time. We loved nature. We loved a nice breeze. I mean, we still do, but I guess it got tougher as time passed and events started unfolding. We were at the local park that beautiful July evening. I always liked the park, honestly. Trees draped in lush greenery towered above delicate benches set deep in the shade; tidy sand pathways created a big loop around a center playground where several swing sets and a slide seemed to bring all the kids out. I was on the slide, of course. As a five-year-old, a slide to me seemed like an endless, curving road. A rollercoaster. A challenge. A feat only for the bravest souls to take on. My mom was leaning against the swing set, a small smile playing on her face. I remember the moment captured perfectly in time; strands of her chocolate brown hair tickling her face, her green eyes lighting up every time I screamed with delight. I even remember her jacket; it was a faded pink color, like curtains in an old lady’s apartment. I didn’t say anything as my mom ushered me into our dark apartment, closing the door behind us and locking all three locks. On my twentieth trip down the slide, my mom suddenly moved away from her spot against the pole, her face hardening. She looked up at the sky and then to some of the buildings on the far side of the park before quickly walking over to me. “Hey now, Mishka. We got to go,” she told me, taking my hand gently. I pouted. “Can I go down one more time?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. We’ll come back tomorrow. I promise.” “Pleeeeeease?” She didn’t answer immediately; instead, she