Poem ‘One of us but different’ by Alan Wherry

“He was one of us but different, he was in his own way,”
Is what his family said of him.

He met Lioudmila in Moscow, she was like him, different too.
Her first thought when she saw him was, “This is my husband.”
It took him longer to reach the same conclusion, that here was the love of his life
- all of five minutes.

He'd never known this feeling that enveloped him, but a feeling he recognized instantly.

They walked in Red Square's September sunshine and barely spoke.
She was shy, knew little English but words would have been superfluous, an excess, an intrusion on the depths of their communication.

He experienced satisfaction, completion,
Parts of the puzzle that were him, that had made no sense before, now fell into place,
and parts that he never knew were missing, were now present, upfront, out of nowhere.
It had all been arranged, of course,

She had traveled seventeen hours by train and on the train had been told that he'd already been matched with someone else.
She was unconcerned, surrendered, such was her trust in the living Goddess who'd made the arrangement and who had told her previously that She'd find her a husband but that he wasn't ready yet.

And the Goddess had told him that She would find him a wife, a Russian wife.
He'd waited, year by year, and knew that when the time came,
He would never say no to Her choice, and he didn't.

Both felt the cool breeze of paramchaitanya cascading all around them.

For her part, she'd vaguely thought, in vacant mood,
That she didn't particularly want to marry an Englishman,
For the ones she'd met smelled of mothballs.
And difference between English and Irish, was as alien to her
As his understanding of the difference between Russian, Uzbek and Tatar.

Joy, satisfaction, bliss, mutual ascent - were the blessings that came their way.
Who could want more? Not them, not ever.