What’s one thing you own that holds deep sentimental value?
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I admit that I often have trouble letting go of some things. Items that meant something to me but have been lost in a move or thrown out by others are hard to let go and cause for distress.
But there is one (of many) in my home that has a great deal of meaning and memory for me in part because the person who owned it is no longer with us.
It has been over 30 years and I still can’t let go!
In 1993 on my second trip to St. Petersburg, Russia I met a street musician and we became friends.
We met whenever we could and talk about the music. His English was very good – Queen’s English – but there were times when he had trouble understanding the lyrics in a song and I would help him get the right words.
I remember one summer day sitting in a part behind the church where a Tsar was murdered talking about the lyrics to some Queen songs.
As the time for my journey in Russia approached, we had made a number of plans and just two days before we were scheduled to begin our journey back to the United States, Peter met me after lunch and we headed for his home; clear on the other side of the city – two trolley-buses, a subway, and a good hike from the dorm where I lived.
His mother taught at the Music Conservatory and had a beautiful piano in their home.
We talked and made music until late into the evening. Even though it was summer, the nights were cool and Peter game me one of his jackets for the trip back to the dorm…
It was after 11pm and getting dark but the street lights…and vehicle lights…had yet to come on.
Peter walked into the median to see if the trolley-bus was coming and in the dark, he was hit by a car…a car that kept going. In the three seconds it took me to realize what had happened, I lost three years of Russian!
I knew he was alive because I could feel the rise and fall of his chest. When the ambulance arrived, I was lost. I couldn’t communicate with them and unable to contact anyone from the group.
They let me go to the hospital with Peter. I was shaking so badly that I thought they were going to try and keep me.
Fortunately, there was a doctor there who spoke English so I could tell him how to contact Peter’s parents and get the head of my group on the phone to come get me!
Russian medicine is sometimes like being in the Stone Age – they check over the patient but don’t do anything until the parents arrive. And the hospital only takes care of medical needs; the rest is up to the family.
They let me in to be with Peter. He had gained consciousness in the ambulance and kept putting his hands on the back of his head so there was a lot of blood. Being Russia, I carried baby wipes with me and I was trying to clean up some of the blood but Peter kept sitting up and putting his head on my shoulder.
Finally his parents came and I tried to return the jacket but his father refused to take it, saying that I would need it.
The leader of the program came and took me back to the dorm, saying there was nothing more I could do.
I never saw him again and while I thought he might be okay when I left the country; that wasn’t the case. When I finally arrived back in Tallahassee, I learned that he had died.
I still have the jacket! It has a pillow stuffed inside since I can no longer wear it. Peter had told me that his grandmother had make the jacket and that it was too small for him now.
Peter was 19 years old!