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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3380 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Being Anastasia Dale McLain In the last days at Tsarko Selo I thought of how I would miss the swallows. The beautiful Standart, anchored and silent had heard the last of our laughter. Later Tobolsk would seem like a dream as we were blessed with a crooked road and could not see what lay ahead. When we were taken to Yekaterinburg spring was finding its way to the Urals. There the sorrow began in earnest. In the Russian summer papa walked, hands clasped behind his back. We offered prayers and pleas as fragile as the song of a bird. In the night I dared to imagine our escape even as I heard the boots of the Bolsheviks. There would be no grace from Our Lady. No reprieve, but a requiem awaited. Heaven fell at the sound of Yurosky’s knock. Eighteen pounds of diamonds and a belt of pearls would not save us that moonless night. The Koptiaki forest and Yeltsin’s tribute were all that lay beyond the rain of fire. Outside an owl soared on silent wing. The summer stars paled over Ipatiev House. There should have been snow to hush and hide for I have been cold my whole life and this was chill I could have borne. |
