AN AUNT

 

Anne, the second-oldest of my father's sisters,

Was, I'm told, the pretty one, the party girl.

Of all the nine children in that family,

Including two who died long before I was born,

She was the one I knew least well though I saw her

Several times a year. Even Edith, who died as a baby,

Comes by so we can discuss what she'd have done 

If she'd grown up (Drawn pictures, we think;

Worn big hats; told good stories). Moshe, 

Dead at almost 13, was good hearted and fat

And remains so after his death. For some reason

His brothers and sisters could never talk of him

Without mentioning a sweater he'd owned; it had a story.

None of them could remember it but the story

Was, they all said, quite funny. Anne though?

Anne? A cipher to me. Not the oldest. That was Rose

Nor the youngest. That was my father.

Not  the sad curmudgeon Harry nor Joe

Who delivered milk and was a luftmensch 

Not the witty one -- Sadie; not Doris, 

Who could do anything and shoveled snow

When she was ninety. Just Anne

With pixie glasses that didn't flatter her

And a handsome, faithless husband who gambled.

Had I asked my father to tell me eleven things 

About his sister Anne that would amaze me

He would have reeled them off, one after another.

I never did, so I cannot write about her now.