Dad turns 75 today.
Every year I make a post about him on this day, but I don’t like to repeat myself—it would be unfair towards him: his life can’t be reduced to a few paragraphs which his awkward daughter writes about him. There will always be something new in something old: even the most vivid memories have a tendency to fade away, but you can bring them back, and there are moments when you should do it.
I cannot yet process the very idea that my Dad is what is regarded in common consciousness as a fairly old man now: is he?.. Is he really? I haven’t seen him in ages: since the pandemic began, my plans to visit him in Moscow on his jubilee were abruptly cancelled and the only thing left are our Skype conversations, which are nice to have at least, but of course not exactly the same. Mostly, they are clunky and full of silly and meme-like “can you hear me?” “It seems your screen is going off” and the like. But I am grateful even for that: see, modern technology can be a lifesaver. After all, we can talk even if we can’t have a glass of Champagne and an opulent feast together: by the way, without any exaggeration, Dad is one of the greatest cooks, not to say chefs, I’ve known by far.