I remember exactly when it happened. I was ten. The eve of International Women's Day, a holiday that, in the Soviet Union, turned cities briefly floral. Bouquets everywhere. Women smiling under armfuls of tulips. A day off. A celebration. I wanted to give my mother something of my own. Drawing was out of the question. I knew my limits early: it was the only subject where I earned a B, surrounded by a sea of As. Handicrafts didn't cooperate with me either; glue, scissors, and
