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Letters to Darinochka "Come spring"

Updated: Dec 24, 2023




Good evening, my dove. In sleep and wake I am bothered blissfully. Under the heavenly storm that drapes over Paris now, only the thought of your wings keeps me warm—bless you. But perhaps it was you who sent this heaping handful of sheer frost. Generous as a queen and deliciously naughty as a child, that you are. This week, my ears rang with souvenirs of your fragrant song, as when I plunged into the cream of your flesh and brown Slavic eyes. Trust, as the cherubs watching over Sacré-Cœur, your glimmer holds my heart in place.

 

For two days straight, these hefty flurries gave cause for the famed fromagerie across the street to not open its door. An ocean deprived of fish would be less difficult to imagine than Montmartre without its artisanal pressed curds; just one of the distinctive tastes I long to offer you. The scribble posted on the window came as no surprise, “fermeture exceptionnelle.” Unsurprisingly, tonight, another Franco-flame begins to flicker, for the citizens are roused about the absent cheese. Undoubtedly, as I pen, another unsavory uprising is in the grinder but were it not for yesterday's blizzard, anarchy would have taken the streets to its bloody knees. It is doubtful that the echoes of rebellion will ever dim here. But for now, your graceful gesture has saved the treasure—Paris.

 

Flocons de neige! As the snow swirls about my lonely bed, from St. Petersburg to Paris, you float into me and set my thoughts spinning on a carousel. Does our distance make you nippy or are you burning to return? My words, did you think they would turn into sleet in but a week? Have faith my unblemished plume. Your feathers are far but only by measure of step. Come spring, if we are still stranded from one another, I shall march the mountains with the zeal of Zeus and recover you into my bolting arms.

 

Though the sun may freeze and the moon might flame, the thump of our hearts shan’t fade. Jagged shears of time and distance cannot sever the coil of our essence—love.

Come back! Darinochka, come back now. I want us to dance in your snow and melt in it forever, together.


EB




Photo: Paris - Vin Rouge

Eric Baronsky

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