When my father’s brother Moshe
died –
He was twelve; my father
three –
All mention of him ceased.
Years later
My father asked hadn’t he
once
Had another brother? His
mother cried
But said nothing. Some
families
Are like that. He died young?
Do your best
To forget him. My mother’s
mother
Slipped on ice and died
giving birth to her.
My mother surely used her
stubborness
And cunning to find out
everything
The grownups didn’t want to
remember.
I can imagine her treasuring
each slip
Listening carefully for the
moment
Her mother’s ghost would
appear
As part of a story or to date
some event
“That was just before
Lillian quit her job
Because her friend Essie
was fired,” or
“I met Lil’s old boyfriend
on the train today –
The one who worked in a
bakery and brought
Huge loaves of bread when
he dropped by.”
My mother, who wrote down
many things
Wrote almost nothing about
her mother
Except that they shared a
name and that
She died because she slipped
on ice
On a day when most of the ice
had melted.
She surely knew everything
though
And what she didn’t know she
would
Have made up had I asked.
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