September 17, 2013
On my way to the market this morning, I heard them in the distance–loud, rumbling booms that I had been warned about. Not thunder, though thunder would have been plausible during this most unusual rainy stretch. Instead, I heard Soviet-era bombs, left over from the Cold War, detonating just southwest of Pereyaslav. Every Tuesday, this ritual commences and subsides in about an hour’s time, like clockwork, I have been told. Now that the distant rumbling is gone,, only the sounds of everyday life here remain: dogs bantering back and forth, a goat negotiating loudly his way to high grasses, women chattering away on the corner, workers pounding water pipes in a nearby trench, my heart beating in rhythm with this country so far removed from my home.