Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

VOROSHILOVGRAD Translated from Ukrainian by Reilly Costigan-Humes & Isaac Wheeler T he priest from the funeral—the “presbyter,” as he was

troubling October sun. The man was unshaven and had long hair. He cast a shrewd yet unfocused glance at us. Another man, short and pot- bellied, wearing white work overalls stained with yellow paint, followed behind him. He had short, gray hair and was wearing Chinesemade Nike sneakers. The teenager looked the worst of all. He was wearing knockoff Dolce & Gabbana jeans and a shiny black jacket with scattered cigarette burns, square- tipped dress shoes, and had some Koss headphones on his head—which also looked like knock-offs. All three of them headed toward us without a word. I looked at the presbyter out of the corner of my eye. He was just about holding it together: was doing his best to conceal his distress. I started rooting

officially called—was looking up at the morning sun as the three figures emerged from the yellow cornstalks that swayed in the wind like hangers in an empty closet. For a while there it was hard to tell who precisely were pushing their way out of the thick crops—the only clues were a black jacket flashing by, the creaking of the corn, their cool breath rising. Stomping some sand-colored leaves and mowing down the morning dew, they finally popped out onto the road: two adults and one teenager. The man in front was wearing a winter AC Milan track jacket that went down to his knees. Army boots too. The club’s black and red colors seemed faded against the

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