IMAGE: ADMIRAL (2008)

What I miss most living in Florida, is fur.  A Florida winter doesn’t allow us to put our bathing suits away even during the “R” months, beaches are still packed and the eye of heaven shines at 85 degrees— even in December.

But when thinking of more proper winters, I think of fur.  It’s one of those natural commodities of which even the most exquisite man-made replica falls far from comparable. The silky delicate strands of varying hues of brown, black, auburn, or beige are lustrous to the eye and delightful to the touch.  Being wrapped in fur, in the midst of a blizzard is comforting, like having a second skin.

One of my most memorable encounters with fur was during my toddler years.  We lived in Ukraine and had a couple of spare bedrooms upstairs.  My mom stored her winter stuff in one of the extra closets.  No one really went up there, but once in a while, I snuck up to explore.

This day, I find myself in the closet. The lights are out of my reach so I fumble around in the dark. I feel my way through the closet when suddenly I feel something. The thing sends cold chills down my spine. It feels alive. I peer through the shadows, our eyes meet— I scream and dart out of the closet screaming something about wild animals at the tip of my five-year-old lungs.

My mom runs upstairs, more frightened than I. Tongue twisted and in disarray, I try to explain that there is a wild beast inside of the closet.  She’s confused because the only animal we ever had was the guard dog, on a chaint— outside. The dog never set paw into the house, he was mean. He bit anyone who trespassed him, he was a genuine, barking-slobbering, guard dog and the presence of any other beast inside of the house was unlikey.

My mom starts asking things, I just point to the closet. She steps in, turns on the lights.

Cautiously, I follow.

She looks around. Spots the wild beast and begins to laugh. The terror who frightened me is neatly hanging from a hanger. My mom’s fox collar. Fox collars with the head still intact were the thing back then and she had the beautiful Russian fox sandwiched between other coats with it head landing directly at my eye level.

I don’t know where the fox is now, but my encounter is ever with me. That is still how I feel about fur, frightened, but enamored. I mean the thing came from an animal and all the controversy surrounding that is a little frightening, but the beauty and texture are captivating.

These days, fur causes all sorts of commotion amid humanitarians, but it wasn’t about animal cruelty for us, it was about staying warm in the winter. Ukrainian winters are no joke and that’s what we wore, that’s what everyone wore since the beginning of time. I know the whole animal cruelty thing can get brutal, but all of the politics aside, still— I’d rather wear fur.

photo | molly herron

I’m sitting down with a blank card and a pen, but my thoughts wander from the task at hand.  The task is a pleasant one; I’m to write a birthday wish to my friend for the fourteenth time.  We’ve been friends for that long and that’s what baffles me.  Why is she my friend, why my best friend?

I never set out to have a best friend.  The concept didn’t fit my life at all.  I grew up with brothers always there, our friends and cousins mutually intertwined.  We were connected to each other like grapes on a vine, forming a conglomerate friendship of many.  It never occurred to me that one friend should shine above the rest because the whole lot was the friend I needed.

Then I moved and the grapevine broke.  Sometimes we’d reunite and pick up where we left off, but the space between the times apart and the moment of reunion left many gaps in our friendship because we missed the growth in each other.  As life went on I moved, again and again, I traveled, got involved in different things, worked different jobs and made friends along the way.  But the same thing happened.  Once the job was over or distance slid between, we got acquaintance-zoned.

It’s not so, with my best friend.  Distance parted us when we lived on opposite sides of the country and in separate nations.  There were times when we got involved in unrelated things, had diverse interests, lived in different circles and were seemingly different beings.

Somehow the closeness never broke.  Miles did not shield our growth from each other.  I saw her changing perspectives, reformed ideas, and evolving beliefs.  I watched her relationships blossom and wither.  No matter how different our lives were or how far we lived from each other— it was as if she was right there.  She never went further than close, even while trotting on the opposite side of the world.

This is what baffles me.  I’ve connected with hundreds of people throughout my life, but when so many bonds decapitate, why is this one resilient?

Some say that we choose our friends.  But that doesn’t seem true— or rather not true in the way the statement implies.

I don’t think that a lifelong friend is a choice, at least not the sort of choice we make when we add something into our shopping cart.  The only choice we have is to accept or reject.  Like when a gift is presented to us, we choose to either take it, or decline it.  We don’t choose the gift— we don’t choose the friend.

So in the end, my birthday wish is this continued friendship— forever.

Happy Birthday, Molly.

You know those moments when you just want to drive?  Really fast to go nowhere, or somewhere.

Really fast to go nowhere, or somewhere. I’m driving over the Skyway Bridge going nowhere. Windows open, sun glistening. Florida is good for this sort of winter’s drive.

My mp3 is on shuffle and a song I’ve not heard in ages goes on.  I turn it up enough to swallow the sounds of the road and listen to the Russian words, skipping in and out the swirling rhythm of, Унеси Mеня by The Message Band.  It’s magical.

Something like:

Dreams of you and I, like birds flying through the open skies. Take me to the place my heart desires, where there’s no grief. Fly me there, I want to soar. Help me lift these wings etched with faith to rise above my earthly cares and reach that place…la-la-la, la-la.

When it comes to poetry, Russian is impossible to translate to English without killing it completely. English words aren’t pliable enough to relay both melody and meaning so I’m not even going to try to translate this song, but if you could just thel lyrics the way they’re meant to be heard!

The Message is a group of Belarusian musicians based out of Clearwater, Florida.  If you or anyone you know speaks Russian, check out their music.

And just as a side note, I had the opportunity to contribute lyrics for one of their songs in their last album: Мысли Чувства Слова (Thoughts Feelings Words) check it out!

Check them out at: Website  |  ITunes  |  Google Play

PHOTO | MELANIE RODRIGUEZ | ♡ HER WORK

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