This is the first time I’m going to Poltava; the ground is frozen, but there is no snow. The white sky, concrete buildings, and dead grass give the illusion that I’ve lost my color vision. The air is biting and the inside of my nose stings on the inhales. The marshrutka dropped me off twenty minutes ago, and I’ve already made my way through the main square, admiring the onion domes and plate gold, the Gogol statues, headed towards the periphery of the city – now I’m crunching out into a field, looking for a secure spot.
+++++Ever since I moved to Ukraine, I’ve always been cold, even in summer, especially in winter. The house I live in is pink, so of course I love it, but there is no hot water. In fact, the water is pulled directly from the ground well, which means it’s dependable, but fucking cold. I shower, and I don’t feel the temperature, I feel pain where the water touches my body. No matter how many blankets I wrap around myself in winter months, the warmth never penetrates down to my bones. Even as I slog around Poltava, the movement forcing my blood to circulate and my big fur jacket trapping in the heat, I’m miserable. The cold finds the weak points and creeps in and you still end up freezing and feeling shitty. Today, the weak point is my feet. I forgot to put the wool liners in my boots, and now the sensation is slowly trickling out of my toes. They’ll thaw out later, but they might get to the ‘twinges of pain’ stage before I make it back to a café.
+++++I’m reaching the middle of the field – I decide I will smoke a cigarette and when the cigarette ends, I will end this walk. I go through the process of fumbling off a glove, my skin instantly red and raw from the wind. I’m swearing in English because I once read a study that swearing reduces the pain you feel, and the profanities I’ve relied on for years, for mitigating pain, are still in my mother tongue. I get the cigarette lit after a mild struggle with the wind and keep crunching along. I touch the silver trowel tucked into my belt to make sure it’s still there. I use the bare hand holding my cigarette on accident. I instantly regret it. Hard, bright, and cold, like the sky. I reach the filter and throw my cigarette without putting it out. There’s no risk of fire.
+++++I set down my pack, take a few moments to catch my breath before I dig. The layers and layers of knit and fur and scarf and boot weigh me down – it saps my energy to lug around all the insulation. I open my pack and take out the wooden box. I open it to make sure my heart is still inside and it sure is, dusty rose and shimmering. I’m leaving it under Poltava frost, where it will be safe, hoping that next spring will be a better time to have her installed in my chest.

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Stoly Manning

Stoly Manning graduated from the University of Washington in 2019 with a degree in Communication, and has since lived in Ukraine and California. Her interests include taking very long walks and crying, and she has been previously published in All Female Menu.

Latest posts by Stoly Manning (see all)

• Poltava Frost - April 2, 2021