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"How do you keep from losing track of some people?" a fellow poet asked me several weeks ago at a poetry-reading brunch.

I had not really thought about it until then. I always assumed people either died, moved away, had other things to do than to communicate with me or just decided I was no longer in their lives. I have never taken it as a negative, because I make friends wherever I go, so losing some and finding new ones seems to balance everything out.

So I gave her an example.

It was mid-October 1991, a pleasantly warm afternoon in Novosibirsk, Siberia, with small patches of snow present in shadows and under trees. When I stepped out of the lobby of the Hotel Siber, I came upon two women sitting on a short, stone fence. They each wore a pin similar to mine, indicating that they, too, were with the International Anniversary Caravan `91 of the People to People Citizen Ambassador Program and were staying at the hotel.

I stopped and introduced myself. The tall, black women in a burka-type dress and head scarf responded first: "I am Anwaar Burgess from Mississippi, by way of Saudi, Arabia. I'm a lab tech."

Then with a handshake, the woman in a colorful East Indian sari greeted me: "Hello, I'm Sushila Porter, medical doctor living in Scotland. I was born in India."

Anwaar asked where in America I was from.

"To be exact, I'm a Pueblo Indian from Albuquerque, New Mexico," I responded, clarifying my residential status and at the same time declaring my obvious racial identity. People of color always want to know this.

To this, Sushila responded, "I am the real Indian, and you're called that because Columbus said you were, but you are really the true first American, and I am so happy to know you."

Anwaar, born in the deep South and a descendant of slaves, was a certified medical technical and a senior cytotechnologist in the pathology department of King Faisal Hospital in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. She said she enjoyed being at her workplace and in the country. She had even adopted the dress of the Muslim women and their religion. When we arrived in Central Asia, she was familiar with the mosques in the area.

Sushila was born and raised in New Delhi, India. Although she never mentioned her family was wealthy, one could imagine they had enough money to put her through medical school in England, where she met and married a Scottish man who was in one of her classes. They returned to his homeland, where they practiced medicine for many years.

I was in contact with both of these women for about 10 years. During this time, Sushila's husband died of a heart attack, which devastated her. Afterward, her general health deteriorated rapidly, and she was going blind from complications of diabetes. We continued our correspondence through yearly Christmas cards until 2001. I have not heard from her since.

Her hobby was embroidery, and she once sent me a card decorated with threads of pink, purple and gold flowers. It is framed and sits on my desk.

The last letter I received from Anwaar was from Sudan. She had married a co-worker from Sudan and appeared to be quite happy. She promised to call me whenever she returns to the States.

So what were the three of us doing in Siberia with the People to People Citizen Ambassador Program? We were there as international specialists, representing more than 30 countries, to share our knowledge of medicine with our counterparts in that part of the world, which was once closed to foreigners by the Soviet Union.

As a small segment of 445 ambassadors divided into teams based on specific specialties, we were not only teaching but were also promoting friendship and understanding across international boundaries.

The mission in 1991 took us to Samarkand and Bukhara in Uzbekistan for one of the most marvelous adventures of my life. I must write a poem about it!