"Вийди, вийди, сонечко,
Ha дідове полечко.
На бабине зіллячко,
Ha ваше подвір'ячко,
Ha всеняні квіточки,
Ha вeceлi дiтoчки
Tам вони граються,
Tебе дожидаються."

"Show up, show up, sun. At grandpa's field, at granny's seeds, at our yard, at the spring flowers, at the merry children. There they are playing, and waiting for you."

The voices of dozens of little girls filled the crisp spring air. We ranged in age from as young as four, which was how old I was although I'd be five next month, to as old as twelve. After that, children were too old to live in this orphanage and were sent to live somewhere else. Each of had a story. Some were true orphans, with parents who had perished in some horrible accident or grisly murder. Others, like myself, had parents who were still living but couldn't afford the burdens of a child.

I have several patches of memory from the day I was left at this orphanage. I remember my mother pushing my blonde hair from my forehead and planting a kiss there. I remember both of my parents promising profusely to return for me, and I remember my naive childish beliefs that they would. Last I heard, my father was in prison due to trouble with the Ukrainian police, and my mother was a beggar on the streets.

Whatever the story, we were all the same here. Boy, girl. Short, tall. All were the same. We were all nameless faces clamoring for a spot on a pedestal that did not exist.

April 9, 1989, was an unseasonably warm day in the Ukraine. Fifty-one degrees Fahrenheit. We were allowed outside today as a result of this oddity in the weather. The boys, all twenty-seven of them, played their usual outdoor game of 'Dragon', and the girls, who numbered thirty-eight, played hopscotch. It was a rather boring game, but it was better than being stuck inside on such a nice day.

"Senoma, throw the pebble!" Yvonne chided. Yvonne was the eldest girl in the orphanage, and so it was unwritten that the others listened to her. I fingered the small brown pebble in my hands. It was quite pretty, and I didn't want to throw it. "Go on, then."

I swung my arm back to send the pebble across the lopsided squares that Edith, a mousy seven-year-old girl, had drawn. However, a loud cry in Ukranian stopped me

"Senoma!" the headmistress yelled. "Come here, dear."

I skipped over to the headmistress. She was a delightful woman, and she treated her charges well. Standing with her was an unfamiliar group of people. There were two adults, the mother and father, and three children. Two boys and one girl. The two boys whispered among themselves at the sight of me, and the words coming from their mouths were gibberish to my ears.

"Senoma, these are the Bakers," the headmistress said, gesturing to the group of people. "They're from California, which is a state in America. Do you know why they're here?" I shook my head, chewing on the nail of my thumb. The headmistress pushed my hand away from my mouth before continuing. "Senoma, these nice people want to adopt you and take you back to America. Would you like that?" I perked up a bit at these words. I would be going to America? The land where children went to school and families cooked outside on things called a barbeque? I nodded my head vigorously, and a strand of my buttery blonde hair fell into my face.

The mother, or perhaps she was my mother now, pointed at me and whispered to the father. They seemed to be speaking in tongues and this entranced me. I cocked my bead to the right. What were they saying about me? They conversed with the headmistress for a moment in their mystical language, and the headmistress turned to me with a smile on her face.

"Senoma, would you like to spend the day with the Bakers?" she asked. I nodded my head slowly, suddenly nervous. Spend the day with these strange people? We didn't even speak the same language! But if this was to be my new family, I suppose it needed to be done.

A translator was located in order to bridge the language barrier, and so myself and the Bakers were off for our day out. They took me to a local Ukrainian circus-type thing, with clowns and acrobats and the like. Being four, the circus was an entrancing place for me, and the mother had to hold onto my hand to prevent my escape.

The girl in the family, the oldest sibling, was introduced to me as Zina. She was rather aloof, but the mother said that it was simply because she was becoming a teenager. Then she said that it was only a phase, and soon Zina would break free of it, and we would be best friends. The youngest, a boy I was to call Matt, was only a few months younger than I, but we were worlds apart. The translator did not bother to translate his babbling, so I did not know what he was saying, but it did not sound interesting. But the most interesting of the three siblings was the middle child, a boy named Zacky. He was seven, would be eight soon, and seemed to be the friendliest. He couldn't speak Ukrainian, but he stayed at my side the entire day, making hand gestures as a way of speaking.

I spent many days like this with the Bakers, and when I came home to the orphanage, the other children would ask me questions about them and the things we did. However, the day soon arrived when the Bakers were forced to return to America, and I could not go with them. I would stay in the Ukraine and wait while the adoption was processed, and I was told this could take a year or more. During this year, I would be prepped for my life in America. One of the most important things I had to do was learn English. I could not go to America not knowing English.

"This is Spot," the tutor read in sharp, precise English. "See Spot run."

"Dis…iz Spot," I repeated, stumbling over the words. "Zee Spot run."

"Very good, Senoma," the tutor praised, her voice high-pitched. I pouted. I knew she was lying. My English was awful. I was leaving to live in America in one week, and I still had major strides to make in my English. And it didn't help that I was five and didn't speak Ukrainian all that well. "You can go now, Senoma," the tutor added gently. "Take your book with you. Practice a bit."

"Yes ma'am," I answered stiffly, taking my reader from the desk. I bit back a snarky, impolite reply and left the room. Perhaps if my tutor told me the things I did wrong as opposed to telling me everything I did was perfect.

When I returned to the room where we slept, it was empty. All of the other girls were outside playing hopscotch or jumping rope with their scarves tied together. I, however, did not feel like playing. The other girls would badger me to come outside, but I would refuse. I must practice my English. Suddenly a horrible thought floated across the frontier of my mind. What if I wasn't allowed to live in America because of my horrible English? What if I was forced to stay here in the Ukraine while the Bakers took one of the smarter girls like Isabelle with them? This thought scared me very much, and I started to cry.

I did not want to stay in the Ukraine. I'd been taunted with images and tales of life in America for almost a year, and now this place I lived seemed like a boring wasteland of nothingness. I wanted to go to America, where they had swimming pools and cookouts and McDonalds. Where I would have a family.

When the Bakers arrived for me the following week, my English was a little better. I was still having problems, especially with the words that sounded the same but were spelled differently. Sometimes I didn't understand how Americans spoke English themselves. When they arrived, the mother and father, or rather my mother and father, presented me with a brand new toy. It was a doll, with a pretty little dress and blonde hair just like mine.

"Tank you," I managed, and they both smiled at me.

"Your English is very good now, Senoma," my new mother said happily. "Now you can talk to us! And to your brothers and sisters as well." She took my hand into hers, and I marveled at the perfect fit. "Come along now. We have a plane to catch and we mustn't be late."

A plane? Oh, I'd never been on an airplane. In the Ukraine, the only people allowed in an airplane were the men who flew them in the military. The thought scared me a little. Would this airplane be like the ones the military men flew? Would people shoot at us as people did at the military men?

Thankfully, the airplane I flew on with the Bakers was nothing like the one the military men flew. It was many times bigger, which a shiny white surface that immediately caught my eye. I wanted to touch it, but my mother held me back. "No, no, Senoma," she scolded. "You're not allowed to go over there."

On the airplane, I sat next to Zacky. This was not by my choosing. Zina insisted on sitting next to our mother, and Matt next to our father. And so my care was entrusted to the eight-year-old Zacky. He tried to talk to me, but he spoke so fast that I could barely understand him. So we spent the trip drawing pictures and listening to music from bands like Pantera and Iron Maiden. At some point during the long flight, I fell asleep against Zacky's shoulder. I dreamt of America, but also of the Ukraine and the friends I was leaving behind. It was quite a delightful dream, but sad at the same time.

"Wake up!" Yvonne shouted at me as I was about to throw the pebble. What? The words coming from the older girl's mouth made no sense. "Senoma, you have to get up! We've landed!"

We've landed… We're here. In America. I shot out of my sleep and flew to the window. I frowned when all I could see was asphalt and more planes. Where was the grass and the houses lining the street? If this was America, then I did not like it.

"Senoma dear, come along," my mother said. When I looked to the side, Zacky was following our father up the aisle to the exit and my mother was standing patiently next my seat. "Time to get off the plane. It's time to go home."

Time to go home. Four words I never thought I'd hear. Four words that were my dream come true.

Notes

I started writing this story almost seven years ago and it eventually grew to be one of my favorites. Pretty much my baby. Since I rediscovered this site, I decided to post on here as well :)