Volodya’s beige Toyota sedan sits still at a red light
as I sit slumped in the back seat, tired after school.
The voice on the classical music radio station echoes
in my fuzzy mind, and I watch the unmoving dog plushies
huddled on the back shelf behind me.
Without looking back, Volodya’s arm slithers around his car seat
to me and his hand opens, in his palm a Korivka.
I open the yellow wrapper with the cow on top,
lifting up the two ear-like flaps on either side.
There’s the little golden fudge, warmed by the sun rays
that fall into the car.
The sugary outside becomes warm and melty
where I hold it with my fingers. I bite half of it,
the exterior and its gooey innards mixing as I chew.
I swallow down the nearly overbearing sweetness,
and lick the stickiness from the tips of my fingers.
I look up from my treat, my eyes meet Volodya’s
through the sun visor’s mirror. He grins at me.
Yummy? his eyes ask,
his unkempt white eyebrows raised.
Spasibo! I try to thank him with the little Russian I know,
even if I mumble and it doesn’t sound
like how he or my parents would say it.
Pozhaluysta! he laughs heartily,
pleased by my attempt.
I fold up the wrapper to tuck it away,
but then I notice something at the bottom.
In small black font, words mostly not in English,
Made in Ukraine draws my attention as the only thing
I understand.
I imagine this candy being produced
in a factory across the ocean, flown into America,
and driven to the cultural store where Volodya
bought it. It had seen where my family used to live.
My family would talk in the language
from their culture, and cook and eat
the food from their culture, but they didn’t
teach me how to speak, or cook, or eat like them.
The Korivka,
made in Ukraine, and shipped to America,
and bought by Volodya and eaten by me,
was now my own little piece of Ukraine.
