My name is Gabriel Petrov.

In early June of 2016, my sister and I toured Russia and Latvia together.

Our family line traced back there, we both spoke some Russian, and it was time the doctors

said, before what might be her final chemotherapy treatments.

On a beautiful day near dusk, we crossed Red Square for the first time, taking picture

after picture.

Tabby got tired kind of quickly, and we were sitting in front of St. Basil's Cathedral,

people watching.

When I asked her, what she made of some people staring at us from about 30 yards away

on the vast open commons.

She couldn't see who I was talking about, so I gestured, trying to be subtle, but again,

she seemed unable to pick the people out from all the other tourists and gockers on the

square.

I pointed to a man and woman standing with their two children.

All four of them seemingly transfixed by us, or else they were staring at the entrance

of the building behind us I couldn't tell.

The parents were in their 40s, maybe they had a little blonde girl and a boy in a wheelchair.

Tabby couldn't for the life of her see who I was gesturing at.

I laughed, stood up, and made as if to walk toward them.

Tabby said in a light-hearted way, maybe my eyes are going too, why not.

Exasperated, I described them for her, but now she frowned, suspecting I was playing

some kind of a joke on her.

...