Homesick

I brought a book for Nellie to read--a well-loved Russian poet telling a well-loved Russian fairytale, in Russian (of course) with beautiful illustrations. Having handed it to her, I proceeded to fill and turn on my electric kettle so we could have tea. By the time I sat down on the bed beside her, my little babushka was practically sobbing.

Alarmed, for she'd been perfectly fine when I entered the room, I asked, "What's wrong? What happened?" She only shook her head and continued to cry. I was really worried by this time, and tried again. "What is the matter? Are you alright?" Finally she calmed enough to gasp through her tears, "My heart--"

Oh, dear. What had I done? I rubbed her back and soothed her until she was able to talk a little, and the words trickled out. "When I saw the book, and the pictures, and the story, my heart was so sad...and I cried." She was still crying, though at least now she could control it a bit. She kept turning her head away to keep me from seeing the tears.

"It's okay," I comforted her. "Sometimes it's good to cry a little."

"I think I need to go back to Russia," she said. "I should go back and die there, in my homeland."