This is a Romanov. She is strikingly beautiful. Though she is not the woman whose photograph would later captivate me, when I saw this image of Princess Olga and she took my breath away...I felt she was a good way to convey how I felt the day I DID see the visage of the stranger on the other end of the phone.

Dear Ether,

Somewhere in Odessa there is a photograph of me.  It might be stored away gently in a envelope.  It may be crudely covered in rubble in a dump.  But somewhere…..somewhere in the Ukraine there is a snapshot of me taken when I was in my mid 20’s.

The original keeper of the photo was a woman I never met.  She spoke no English and I no Russian.  My glossy print sat on her mantelpiece for about 5 years in her modest studio flat.  It shared space with images of her grandchildren, husband and daughter and a few tattered black and white photos that survived the war.

English gent is half Russian.  His mother is this woman’s daughter.  To me she was only known as Babushka.

I only spoke to her a few times on the phone.  I muttered foolish statements that English gent had taught me.  “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia” (I love you).  She laughed with good nature into the phone and repeated. “Ya Loo-Bloo Tibia Tour-Jah” (I love you too).  It felt sad that I was crippled by language and couldn’t communicate with a woman who I knew had a tremendous history and warmth.  I had never been handicapped by language before—in fact, it was something I was so good at.  I always handed over the receiver feeling like a puppet who’d just done her job entertaining.

One day, I asked to see her photograph during a visit to English gent’s house.  His clan are a family of pale, fair-haired, light eyed, slim people.  Babushka was in her twenties in the photo I was shown.  She couldn’t have been more than 5 feet tall.  She had coffee-colored hair and brown pupils. I know it seems crazy, but I felt a sudden closeness to her.  I felt she was from my stock.  That English gent’s genes had all come from his father’s UK side (and even his mother was shockingly fair—she didn’t resemble Babushka at all).  Though I’m much taller, we were both the dark horses.  I asked English gent’s mom if I could send Babushka MY photo.  I felt if that made me feel a connection to her where words couldn’t, maybe my photo could create the same spark.

When she received my photo, Gent told me she cried.  That she “understood.”  She loved my dark looks—and it made her so happy that he was with someone who reminded her of her heritage.  After that, I made sure no longer to be a marionette on the phone but to have a translator and convey true feelings across the line.

But, as we all know, time is a harsh enemy.  And she was not young.  She no longer could speak on the phone or read letters.  And then she died.  When English gent’s mother went to her flat for the last time, she said she noticed my photo immediately.  It stood out more than the others and looked as though it had been fingered the most.  It was slightly dog-eared and had many fingerprints on its finish.  I like to think that she passed it around for many to see.  By the time Gent’s mom came back to clean the flat, the mantle had been tidied and to this day, those pictures have never resurfaced.

Though we never got to know each other, when we looked into one another’s eyes from so far away, we had an understanding.  I often wonder what my photo got to see in her little flat?  I wonder what aromas surrounded it as she cooked her traditional meals?

Wherever I am in Odessa, decaying in a landfill or safe in a drawer, at least I can say for a moment in time a picture spoke a thousand words for both of us.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

This gorgeous antique print from the 19th century is of the Spathiphyllum, otherwise known as The Peace Lily. A common house plant, it's quite resilient and tough to kill and constantly reminds me of one of the many fond memories of English gent before he became MY English gent. I make sure always to have this cheap and cheerful plant in ANY residence I occupy.

Dear Ether, 

I ran into him at the vegetable section at Sainsbury’s in New Cross Gate.  I was 21 years old and he was 19.  He was carrying one of those dainty ferns that have delicate, petal like leaves that sadly die unless you have a masterful green thumb.  He didn’t have a basket and was carrying too much in his arms.  His face was slight obstructed by the plant.  “You might want to try a Spathiphyllum instead.  They’re almost impossible to kill and they let you know when they’re desperate for a drink—their leaves totally droop and look depressed.”  He looked past the greenery to see who the voice was coming from and grinned when he saw me.  “Hiya.  I don’t know what the hell a Spathiphyllum is but if you know a plant with a fucking name like that, I better take your word for it and put this one back.”  He was so damned good-looking and that accent then was still so novel.  So classy!  I felt like I was chatting with someone Bertie Wooster might know. 

I was doing my midnight shopping as usual because I was a night owl and the store was dead.  I still found UK supermarkets a marvel.  They were so different than the large American ones and I loved strolling down the aisles and buying things I’d never heard of before to taste (though Mr. Brains Frozen Faggots never did make the tick-list).  English gent was wearing a very hip beanie covering his hair so I didn’t see his normally trendy blonde hair cut.  All I could see were his beautifully sculpted features and his dark eyebrows and lashes with his rare peridot green eyes.  I noticed he had a bottle of Jack Daniels as part of his shopping along with writing paper, some pens and oddly a prayer candle.  “What are you up to tonight?” I asked him nonchalantly.  I had been hanging out with him along with a few of my flatmates recently.  He went to boarding school with one of the guys I was living with and was particularly friendly with him and came over to our halls a lot.  The three of us often stayed up talking, drinking, smoking weed and listening to chill music.  I only bothered with this banter because of him.  I felt when we argued over a political point or some other runaway discussion there was some sort of sexual tension.  But then he would just act as mates when we would run into each other.  

“Tonight.  Fuck me.  I have a paper to write.  The whiskey always inspires me,” he chuckled. “And is the prayer candle lit to give you a hope from god to help you finish the thing?” I asked.  He laughed.  “No, I love to write poetry by candlelight and these last forever.” He writes poetry too….oh man……! “Well, I’m not up to anything, so if you finish your paper and you wanna pop on over when you’re done it’d be cool to hang out.”  He nodded his head negatively. “This one is gonna be an all nighter.  But thanks anyway.  I better get that plant—the—Spatha—that whatever you recommended and get going.  Cheers!”  I was gutted.  I just didn’t get it.  I guess he knew I liked him and wasn’t interested.  I meandered around Sainsbury’s a bit more, no longer keen on the novelty of the place and saw him, well, the tall leaves of his plant, in the check-out line, and watched him go.  Sauntering home with, I think that night, Marmite flavored crisps (a nasty surprise) I was bored stiff and cozied up with a book and passed out.  But at 2:30am my mobile rang.  It was English gent.  I was excited, but had to sound calm and cool.  “Hey, what’s up?  How’s your work going?”  He sounded relaxed and relieved.  “I’m done, actually and have a full bottle of whiskey and not a friend in the world tonight.  Mind if I come over?”  MIND?  Of course not!  But, as we Americans say, this was NOT going to be a “booty call.” 

I feverishly threw on something cute, but not trying “too hard cute,” stashed away my candy wrappers and waited with my heart in my chest.  He didn’t knock–he just texted saying he was about to come in the flat.  I jolted up from my bed, opened the door and there he stood.  Diesel jeans (perfect cut), vintage top with a fantastic toggle coat, chic boots (rugged and manly, yet still on trend) the bottle of booze and that damned dashing grin.  Two kisses on each cheek he was in the door, 3 hours later we were drunk, and an hour later I was ready to pass out.  “Can I sleep here tonight?  I can’t be asked to head back to my flat.” Okay.  Remember. NO BOOTY CALL.  SINGLE BED.  SO…WHAT THE FUCK DO I DO?  “Sure, do you mind sleeping on the floor, I have a spare duvet and a pillow—it’ll be padded and comfy.”  He looked taken aback, but not too shocked.  I think he thought I was going to invite him to sleep with me.  

By the time I came back from the bathroom where I changed and brushed my teeth, he was passed out.  He was like one of my English novelties I had brought back from the supermarket.  Except I hadn’t tried him—yet.  No, this one I was going to savor, because I didn’t know if it had a day old expiry date.  I stared at him.  His lashes spread out like fans almost touching his cheeks, a slight squint as if he was thinking in a dream, his lips slightly parted blowing air out making a feather from the duvet flicker.  I knew he couldn’t hear me.  He was way too drunk and way too deep in sleep.  So I whispered, “I think I love you.  And I have a feeling we’re going to be together.  You’ll see.  When I want something and I try hard enough, I get it.”  Oh if only the two of us knew how right I was to be that night.  

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365