Little Suns
**** I often remembered the old communal apartment in St. Petersburg where my childhood passed. That very beautiful and very dilapidated building, the well courtyard, the dark archway through which we would emerge from our gloomy little world into the big noisy city. My parents moved there after my grandmother died. She, in turn, had received the apartment right after the war, having moved from Moscow. And my childhood in the eighties of the last century was truly happy. Next door to us lived another young family with a boy my age. We quickly found common ground and became friends. His name was Dimka. He was very calm and didn’t especially like the active games the rest of us played in the courtyard. But he had a whole heap of books and drew very well, gladly teaching me, though I turned out to be rather clumsy. Later, in high school, Dimka switched to poetry and wrote somewhat strange and “druggy” but definitely talented poems. Sadly, around that time my family moved to a newly built ...
