Lomonosov is the birthplace of composer Igor Stravinsky
Light spills through morning like a jar of pennies—
pooling over the music scores, each page waiting for fingertips.
It’s our first morning ritual: I press my thumbs
through the f carved into the violin’s cheek, bridging bow to string.
On the second-hand leather bench, I work rosin
into the bristles, its powder rising like sawdust
from a workshop where the air once carried notes
of tobacco, varnish. Beside a frost-tipped photograph, a bottle
of Kemlya stands capped in dust, remembering the curtained corner
of a New York apartment, the hand that tipped it back. In its reflection, home
spins, tilts into view: its floorboards loosening under the weight
of record players, photo albums, Stravinsky wafting through the kitchen.
In the hall, shoes scuff, lifting as students tumble through
the doorway. Between a welcome home mat and the painted gaze
pinching a Matryoshka doll, Lomonosov blinks awake.
His bow lifts. Our strings unclutch. For a moment, the room forgets
we are on the other side of the world.
