It was one of the longest nights of my young life. A heavily freckled teenager, I had never experienced a loss before. The news of her sudden death paralyzed and numbed me. I could not sleep that night and, having exhausted all tears, I started to scream like a wounded animal. I simply could not believe I would not see her again, that I would not look into her quiet, yet sparkling, lively and warm blue eyes, that I would not once more bathe in her amazing aura or enjoy the music of her soft smile.
Her name was Rimma. She was my mother's very close friend from the capital of my country, Moscow. She was a professor of Biology at the Moscow University and a wife of a diplomat, with whom she traveled the world at a time when only few could in my home country, living behind the iron curtain separating it from the world. They, the diplomats, had uncounted privileges - ones that Rimma never took advantage of.
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