“Is Mr. Vodorosky in?”

“Right go over there and have a seat. Nurse will be your guide, when I call for you,” an office lady at desk said.

And so I waited in a seat near the table full of magazines. I often wonder if they actually were able to afford such number a magazine each month. So I picked one, a Newsweek. Looking over pages by pages, simply easy to read and informative, yet too simplistic for my tastes. I wonder if this is as idiotic as American audience stood out for its news readership community. Probably.

“Mr. Woolf?” The professional voice called out, in a minimal loud and clear across the room as to clear up the neighboring seats.

“Yes,” I stood up to the desk, after returning the magazine to table in its fit place.

“Nurse here will guide you to the room. Mr. Vodorosky’s room, is that correct?”

“Yes, thank you.”

A lady nurse with a notebook in her arm pointed a pen to me. “Follow me,” she wrote down her daily task.

I followed through for a while. Then, we reached the destination, Room 5118.

Swinging the room open, nurse with the name tag of “Lora,” greeted to the man in the room, as to introduce a guest, such as myself, in a formal voice that I have not heard before. It was a complete different personality, I concluded; out of immerse respect to such a legendary figure.

“Vladimir, there’s someone to see you.”

A bark croak of the 98-years old throat came: “Who? Who dares to disturb?”

“Mr. Woolf,” the nurse neatly set her professional, if not personal, tone in.

“Oh.”

“I’ll leave you two alone for awhile,” Lora said. “Please don’t overreact this time, mister. We nearly lost you the last time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said the old man softly. “What do you want, Mr. Woolf?”

I stepped in so that he can clearly see my face and figure.

“You look familiar.”

“I should, pops,” I said.

“Grandchild?”

“Yes.”

“Grandchild Luchnikov?”

“Yes, grandpa Lukin,” I finally answered.

“You’ve grown.”

“Yes.” I had to be respectful all the time. This is an unusual moment. No matter what peoples say. As I was told all my life.

“Mr. Woolf. You’ve changed your last name?”

“Not officially. It is temporary,” I slowed down. It is too sacred a name to change.

“Come close,” he commanded. “Come close, so that I can see you. I want to see if you are truly my grandchild.”