Written for a friend of mine.
All my reference notes and stuff got deleted, and I'm not typing them up again.
I don't care. Whatever. Google it.
The day after she leaves, he comes to visit.
She had been packing for months before; filling boxes full of things, throwing away others. Leaving her only brother, who would often stand in the doorway, watching, smiling as she tried to busy herself, tried to avoid his gaze. Though he would stand there, pounding back vodka, he never once offered to help, and though he was always grinning, he didn't want her to go. It was just that he couldn't stop her. Was too weak to stop her.
When he comes to visit, Katyusha is surprised. It has only been a day; certainly there can be no visitors yet. Her things aren't even unpacked!
Unless it is Ivan.
The gentle rapping on her door, much less of a knock than it is a tap, sounds like Ivan. Polite in it's ways, it has to be him. Who else would know where she was? Who else would come to her door, when she's been living in her brother's overcrowded house for eighty years? No one but Ivan.
Cautiously, she opens the door, gaze already shifted upward to meet her sibling's eyes.
But there is no one up there; nothing but clear blue sky, and a thin, curling strand of hair.
Oh.
She levels her gaze, and her blue eyes meet his. She doesn't recognize him; she has been out of the world scene for so long, she doubts she would recognize anyone. But somehow, she knows. He is a nation. However, though she knows the nature of the person, this is a new face to her.
The young man, who can be called more of a boy than a man (having become fully independent from his father only ten years prior), stands on her doorstep in a suit,a rocking nervously on the balls of his feet. He smiles shyly, hiding behind his glasses and the blond bangs of his hair. Katyusha can't help but notice the pin on his lapel. A strange bastardization of the Polish flag her friend Feliks was so proud of; Red and white and red again. For a moment, it crosses her mind that he may have come to 'retrieve' her, but it is quickly dismissed. He is far too timid to be a threat.
After a moment of awkward silence, her visitor blushes, tripping over his own tongue in an attempt to speak.
"Vitayu," she says, proud to use her mothertongue to greet her guest. She had nearly forgotten it.
"Veetay you," he mimics, his Ukrainian incredibly poor. But she must commend him; at least he has gone through the effort to try. "Vy rozmovlyaete Angliskou, bud'laska?"
She nods vigorously, an enthusiatic 'yes' accompanying. Her accent is thick, but her English is much better than his Ukranian. "Won't you come inside, sir?"
He blushes an even deeper red. "Ah, just call me Canada, please. I'm Canada."
"Nice to meet you, Canada. I am Ukr-"
He interrupts. "The Ukraine. I know."
She welcomes him inside, apologizing profusely for the barren appearance of her home. He sits on the low, abused couch as she riffles through boxes, searching for a teapot. Perhaps she doesn't notice, but the silence is awkward; Canada shifts nervously on the couch, crossing and uncrossing his legs.
He breaks the silence with a cough.
"I, ah, got these for you..." he mumbles, holding out the bouquet he had been clutching tightly in his fist. When she sees turns to look, she notices for the first time the yellow roses, surrounded by blue Baby's Breath. Her stunned silence prompts him to speak again. "Your national colors."
With a hand to her mouth, she takes the bouquet from the young man's (slightly sweaty) hand, clutching it close to her chest. She cannot think of anything to say. How does he know? She has not been free in so long; she did not think that anyone would notice, or be brave enough to notice. Yet here he is.
He continues."I just came over, really, to say that, I...I recognize you." He's visibly flustered by the tears he can see in her eyes. "As a country, I mean. Independent. From Russia, and all. Officially." He didn't seem to realize he was rambling.
He would have continued on rambling if it weren't for the tight hug he found himself engaged in. The flowers tossed haphazardly on to the coffee table, Ukraine wraps her arms around the younger nation, holding him close with a strength he didn't know she had.
"You are the first!" she cries, her voice louder than necessary, drowning out any sounds of protest Canada might make. Katyusha then holds him at arms length, and he can see a tear rolling down her cheek. "So long I have not been! Living with Ivan, his Soviet state for so long, and you...!"
He pulls away from the hug, still blushing profusely (perhaps even more so, if possible), unable to meet her gaze.
"I just thought it would be appropriate. I mean, it makes sense." He glances up, smiling sheepishly. "You are a....a part of me, after all. Not a part-part, like a p-province or anything, but..." He shakes his head, as if trying to clear his thoughts.
She finds it hard to understand him, what he means, but allows him to finish. She wants to understand where this kindness comes from.
"Your people. I don't really have a people of...of my own, really. I have all sorts of people. And your people, they, some of them, they're my people, too? I can feel them under my skin, sometimes... I just knew."
After a moment, Katyusha nods in understanding. It makes sense. She has always been able to feel her people, as if they lived in her blood and body, rather than on the fertile land she represents. When they wept, she could feel it. When they rejoiced, as they did today, she could feel it. When they starved, she could feel it. If his people were the people of others, then, it must be the same.
But it raised a question.
"In 1930," she says quite suddenly, all business. Her serious tone startles the boy. "The Holodomor. Did you feel it?"
Surprisingly, he responds quickly. A regretful smile spreads over his face. "I lost thirty pounds."
This is answer enough for her. They embrace once again, both parties willing this time. She cries tears of joy, and, though he will never admit it, he has to remove his glasses and wipe his eyes more than once.
"Thank you, my friend."
It's over ten years later, and, though no one else may know, it is an important day for the Ukraine. For Katushya and her people.
Though she is not allowed to vote, that does not stop her from showing up at the polling stations, dressed to the nines. She stands with her hands held behind her back, a smile on her face as, one by one, her people cast their ballots. However, her smile faltered as she gazed around the large room.
Many people stood, loitering, not in line, nor having already voted. They stood, chatting in small groups, sometimes hugging or patting one another on the back.
Before she can figure out who these people are, why they have not voted, she hears her name above the noise of the crowd.
"Katushya!" The voice is familiar, and it bids her smile to return, brighter than before. "Davno ne bacilis!" His Ukrainian has improved tremendously.
"Matthew!"
She runs to him, throwing her arms around her friend in a tight hug, as she always does. He has grown; he stands nearly six inches taller than her, and his face as matured considerably. They have corresponded, but it's been so long since they've visited one another. She's overjoyed to see him.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, smiling up at him. She can't help but notice the pin on his lapel; red, gold, blue, red. How appropriate.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he presents her with a bouquet. Roses and lilies and gerbera, all bright orange. She understands, and they both blush.
"I came with my people," he says as she takes the flowers from him, gesturing around the room. They stand in groups, talking quietly amongst themselves, clapping voters on the back and drawing them into tight, congratulatory hugs.
"Why?" she asks in response, making him laugh quietly. As if it isn't obvious.
"We want to you to be happy, Ukraine. We love you."