“I think the thing I miss most about Russia, believe it or not, is the weather,” she says slowly. “I miss the crystalized cold of the winters and the white nights of the summers. I could think clearly there. The cold here is wet, and it seeps into my pores. I love it now, of course. Now I see the fog and think of it as something good. It keeps us from getting too hot and nourishes my flowers.”

She waves her arm. “But back then everywhere I looked was fog and rain, and it seemed to mirror my heart. I would take long walks in the redwoods to feel closer to Russia. The trees reminded me of the forest my papa would sometimes take me to when I was a little girl. The trees there were so tall, it was as if their branches brushed the sky.”

Her face turns up like she sees the tops of the trees right here in our kitchen, and I can’t help but look up too. When all I see is our white painted ceiling, I close my eyes. I picture the tall, straight trunks of a redwood with a small patch of green as high up as the clouds. I try to imagine how Gram felt so far from the home she grew up in.

“Trees.” Clay nods and keeps eating.

“One day with my papa,” Gram continues, “the clouds beckoned me. I thought if I could climb high enough, I could touch them. Perhaps even sit on one. So while Papa took a nap, I climbed.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “But, of course, the branch snapped, and I fell and broke my arm. Papa woke up to me howling. He scooped me up and drove to the hospital faster than I’ve ever been in a car since. It’s a miracle we didn’t crash. My arm mended, but I sometimes dream of the pain. The sharp ache while it healed. This was how my heart felt when I first lived here. It ached for my old life in Russia, for Jacob, and for Papa.”

Gram rubbed her arm. Is she homesick even now?

“Ouchie?” Clay points to Gram’s arm, his eyes wide with concern.

“No ouchie,” I say. “Gram’s okay.”

Gram doesn’t seem to hear him. She continues talking. “When the ache overwhelmed me, I’d close my eyes and see Jacob’s face like a picture. But after a while the picture began to fade. I couldn’t see the shape of his nose or the color of his eyes. I was afraid when I finally saw him again, I would no longer recognize him. Would he know me? Or would we be strangers?

“I waited for years to see him again. I worked hard to get into the college we agreed on before I left Russia. The only American college we’d heard of—Harvard.”