How to say "goodbye" in Russian . . .

I always think I'm going to hear the sound of a freight train long before it actually barrels down upon me and wipes me out.

If today is any indication, it's time for me to rethink that assumption.

My mother and I took my children with us to try out a new tearoom not far from our house. The weather today was unseasonably warm, but here at Christmas - 3 days we were so full of the joy and anticipation that comes with this time of year we really didn't care.

As we walked in to the charmingly decorated building, we were greeted by a lady we've known casually from the Denneys restaurant across the highway. She'd been a waitress there for years and even though we'd not eaten at Denneys in recent months, we all recognized each other instantly.

She enthusiastically greeted us and gestured to a second woman who used to work for Denneys and now worked at the tearoom. It seemed as though there had been a mass exodus from the 24-breakfast joint, with these women exchanging the highway traveler and trucker crowd for a more refined environment in which to serve food.

Once we were seated, my mother asked the second woman, "Does Albina still work at Denneys?"

The woman, who was setting up a nearby table for a newly-seated customer, replied off-handedly, "No, she passed away awhile back."

Bam.

We were instantly pinned beneath the train and I could feel my oxygen beginning to seep away.

Albina Callaway had worked at Denneys as long as we've lived in our community and she was a favorite fixture of not just ours but many, many other regular customers who came in for coffee and pie or -- like my family often ordered -- a full-scale lunch complete with dessert.

What made Albina special to us was that she was from Russia, and my mother and I absolutely adore all things Russian.

Albina was no exception.

Tall and thin with dark hair and a wide smile, she spoke English with the deep, rich accent I heard in my dreams for weeks after we returned from two separate trips to the USSR back in the '80s.

I loved to hear her stories about her family back home, her experiences upon coming to America, her little girl Michelle.

She always took time out from serving customers and cleaning tables to chat with us, asking about my children and what they were doing. She knew we were homeschoolers and she often remarked on how well-behaved my kids were (even when the boys were climbing up the back of the booth or sliding up and down the bench seat).

If Albina happened to see our car pull in to the parking lot, she'd have our drinks on the table before we even hit the door. I always ordered water for my kids and for myself an iced tea.

Typical of the Russians we met on our trips, she always addressed my mother as "Mama," a term of endearment used with any grandmotherly woman whether they were related to you or not.

"Mama!" she would say to my mom, "What would you like today? Coffee, maybe, or tea?"

One day, not long after we'd become acquainted and my mother and I mentioned to Albina that we'd travelled to Russia years ago, I noticed her wearing a cross on a chain around her neck. I remembered her saying that her ancestors were Muslim Tartars -- the people who had swept across into Russia as part of Genghis Khan's Golden Horde in the 13th century.

I was curious about the cross necklace, so I asked her about it.

"Oh yes," she said, smiling. "I was born a Muslim but when I got older I learned about Jesus Christ and I converted to Christianity." I asked her if her parents, who still lived in Russia, were disappointed with her decision.

"Yes, at first," she said. "But I told them I could not go back to that other way of thinking."

Then there was Albina's little girl, Michelle. When we met Albina, Michelle was still very little and not yet in school. As each year passed, she never failed to mention how now Michelle was in kindergarten, now first grade, etc. She carried Michelle's picture in her ticket book and loved to talk about the cute things she was saying or doing or making.

Shortly before Christmas last year, we were in Denneys talking to Albina when something was said about everyone's plans for Christmas Day.

"Oh, I'll be working," she said, frowning. "I have to work and on that day I'll make extra, so it's good. It's good."

Albina was one of the hardest working women I guess I've ever known. Her husband, an American she'd met and married some years before moving to Texas, had health problems and worked a grueling schedule. Albina worked days, nights, overtime, extra time, holidays. She was pulling her own share of the load for the entire family, and sometimes it showed in her face. Her smile would be bright, but her eyes would look tired.

Learning that she would have to celebrate Christmas Day the night before so she could be with her daughter, my mother and I decided we wanted to do something nice for Albina so her Christmas Day wouldn't be simply work.

We decided to get her a gift.

We selected two presents -- a sundae-making set with the little glass dishes and all the ingredients she'd need to make treats with her little girl, and a toy for Michelle. My mother, who'd studied the Russian language at one point, made up a Christmas card with the greeting in Russian and we all signed it.

When Christmas Day came, we weren't scheduled to be at my in-laws for several hours so we bundled everyone up and headed to Denneys to present our gifts.

Albina was indeed there and she was very surprised to see us. She was even more surprised when we gave her our presents and she read the card. "It's Russian!" she exclaimed. "You wrote this in Russian! Oh my God! My God! It's in Russian!"

We didn't know it then, but that would be our only Christmas with our new and treasured friend.

I learned today that Albina, only 38 years old, died in late September from a rare genetic condition. Her parents came from Russia to be with her but she had already lapsed into a coma by the time they arrived. She was buried in the veteran's cemetery in Houston because her husband is a vet.

She leaves behind her parents, a brother, a husband, and little Michelle.
She also leaves behind a lot of customers who came and went from Denneys but who, like us, were touched in some lasting way by the tall, smiling Russian woman who served up our food with a hearty helping of joy.

I am trying to remember the last time I saw her, but I cannot. I didn't think I'd need to, so there is no concrete "last" day with Albina. Rather, I'm left with a collage of vague impressions, a handful of specifics, and guilt for staying away from the diner for so long.


Years ago, a friend who'd been with us on our first trip to the USSR gave me a cassette tape of a love song popular in that country at the time. It was performed by the famous Russian singer Alla Pugacheva and titled, "Million Roses" (Million Alyh Roz).

Million, million,
Million of red roses
From your window, from your window
From your window you can see
Who's in love, who's in love
Who's crazy in love with you
My whole life for you
I will turn into flowers

Albina was a lot like the man in this song who vows to fill the whole world with beautiful flowers for the one he loves.

She worked hard to fill the lives of those she cared about with friendship, joy, and love.

I found her cell-phone number listed on a public information website so I dialed it to see what would happen. Even though she's been gone three months now, her familiar accented voice still answers, so I left her a message.

Do svidaniya, Albina. Goodbye, Albina.

Ya budu skuchat' za toboy. We will miss you.