Mr. AK87

He talked smoothly and softly about a place named Russia, AK87 did. He talked about a cold childhood and thick scarves, frozen teardrops caged by the terribly low temperatures of that northern nation. His town, with a population around the five hundred thousand, was approximately three hundred kilometers away from the great Moscow. His routine was quite plain yet quite exciting. He inhabited a classroom along with the same people that he had met back in first grade. AK87 cherished the simple life that he had back in the days of his premature universe, he lingered (sometimes) in the dimension of past memories, he smirked when he told me that instead of kicking a soccer ball, he would play around with a can – which was as useful as most of the times. He leaned forward without rocking the chair when asked about the always-molesting homesickness. Both AK87 and I knew that, there will be always a place to miss. His complexion was as dynamic as his words. Briefly and without pondering too much, he talked to me about a group of friends that he will never forget. He can only remember, for life is that step we make forward, the life he once had.
His mom walked him out of his beloved Russia; she brought him to the U.S.