Sergei

You stood on the platform in a dusty rose dress. He stood by the train car, with two suitcases containing his entire life. A week ago, he was assigned to Magadan. And she was in Frunze. A map of the USSR separated them with railroad switches, like a cheat sheet for a final exam. ‎ “Write,” you said, thrusting a triangle of paper with an address into his hand. “Every day,” he vowed, knowing that the mail would take a month. ‎ And you wrote. On geological survey stationery, on the back of a tracing paper map, on dried fireweed petals. You wrote about the frozen ground that couldn't be dug with a shovel, about the northern lights like frozen music, about how much you missed his laughter. You numbered each line so he'd know if the letter got lost. ‎ He replied on thin sheets of aerogramme paper that didn't need folding. He'd tell you everything under the sun, just to see your handwriting in response. He ended each letter with the same phrase: "Distance is measured not in kilometers, but in days without you. I'm shortening it. " ‎ Three years passed like this. Three boxes of letters each. They became archives of the love the state had sent into exile. ‎ And there he was, standing on the same platform. A telegram in his pocket: "Meet me. Flight SU-145. 12:30." He hadn't slept all night. You stepped out of the train and immediately, without thinking, ran to him. The bouquet in his hands almost fell out of excitement and happiness.