Full fathom five my Uncle Moshe lies
I can fashion him almost as I will,
Who will deny my words? Dead at twelve;
Scarce spoken of for many years ;
A name to make his mother cry.
A tall, kind boy, my toddler father thought,
Always, in memory, wearing a sweater.
My oldest aunt thinks I look like him;
She sighs. “He was a handsome fatty”.
My father, grown, did his best, gathering
The meagre anecdotes, finding one picture,
Now lost again. I find receipts for gifts
“Given in memory of Moshe Silver.”
What has Moshe done since he died?
Is he still twelve? Is he old? Is he both?
Or perhaps he is nothing now at all.
Lacking proof, I will picture him
An experienced ghost but still
Moses, the kind older brother,
Smiling to see young Nate pretending
To have died a bearded old man.