I am lulled into a daydream of a forgotten time, where fellow men drank vodka freely without care, were still capable of playing chess like no one's business, and discussed political theory coherently at the table. The hard-nosed guards walking the streets outside the park's gate on cold windy days, having been relieved of their duties for the day, going home to their wives and kids, like I would go home to my wife and kids after my paperwork was done at my office, and a few games of chess in the nearby park.
I look in the mirror now, the cracks and crevices of wrinkles widening by the day. "What has happened to you? Where did your youth go, Sergey Petrov?", I find myself asking this question every time I am at the mirror shaving my face.
I see the kids look at me now. The look in their eyes tells me they wonder about my days when I was a youth, and how I became an old man who has a blank stare on his face each day I walk by them playing card games like future hustlers they aspire to be, the dirty little street rats. They understand that one day they will be like me too, and as best as I can gather they seek to be happy at my age.
I was happy up until my wife died of brain cancer two years ago. The way she died in excruciating pain was hard for me to take in, I loved her dearly with all of my heart, I still feel her hand grasping mine as her life-forces slowly departed her. My children, both daughter and son, having long ago defected to America. They still keep in touch and ask me to join them as they are worried about me dying alone soon, but this is my homeland I can not willingly leave it, even if I have long given up the dream of the October Revolution. I am alone now, but in my solitude I remember all, and it does make me smile even with some of the bad memories bubbling to the surface.
When my son defected to America I was so alarmed. How could my own flesh and blood be a traitor to the Soviet Union? An enemy to the class! Nyet, not my son! What would my comrades think of me? Ah, but some of their family members, peers, and own children had defected too. Not many, but enough to know that my failure as a father to instill the values of our great nation was shared by other noble men.
It was some twenty years after my son's defection that I came to terms with it, and reached out to him again. It was a spring day in Moscow, the trees spoke with life in their branches, I was sitting at a chess table, in a park, when a young man approached the table. He asked me if I would care to play a game of chess, in rather poor Russian, with a strange accent. I inquired about his nation of origin. He explained to me he was an American journalist, that he was writing about pre-Soviet history, I can not recall what exactly about pre-Soviet History, but I do remember him stating he was researching Gogol. My first thought was to get up and leave, since he was the enemy of my people. But I am a man who always loved a challenge, and what a victory it would be to beat an American at my game! So we played a terrific game of chess. During the match we made good use of our time telling each other about our lives. I was disarmed by his story of his own wife and kid. What a lovely wife he had, when I saw her picture that he showed me I could see why he chose her. Before I knew it I had lost the game of chess, having being suckered into this man's fantastic story of his life, and forgetting all sound strategies. Oh, how my comrades would laugh at me mercilessly for losing to an American, "Sergey Petrov, you fool! Losing to an American, ha!". But you know what? That American eased the pain of my son's defection, he had shown me Americans and Russians were the same people with just different outlooks of life, humans are humans in the very end. To this day I still send Frank Wilson emails thanking him for giving me my son back to me.