1.
The last
time I saw her
she was
lying in a casket.
With hardly
any wrinkles – her skin
smooth
and pale, she always
looked
younger than her age:
hair, still
black and shiny at 92,
lips
full, cheeks rosy. If her eyes
had been
open, their large black pupils
would’ve
astonished you. Always
a
beautiful woman, she delighted to say
that she
looked exactly
like her
mother.
2.
When I
look in the mirror
I see her.
3.
I am 6
years old.
The
middle of the afternoon on a week day.
After
school, after lunch, to bed, to nap.
I can see
her sitting by the window,
looking
at the sidewalk across the street;
the
winter air filled with cold and wind,
the sky
grey. I imagine
she
wonders why she’s there,
what
she’s doing so far from home.
But it’s
too late now.
Home is
many thousands of miles away.
And she
has a husband and a child.
I imagine
she gazes at the house across the street
its
gleaming white walls and iron wrought entrance.
Perhaps
one of the neighbors is walking home
from the
day’s errands saddled with shopping bags.
The light
in the room
pale and
weak
and all I
can see
is her
silhouette,
sitting
by the window,
framed by
the white drapes,
a glimpse
of trees outside,
the light
blue walls.
I imagine
she can see the afternoon get dark.
Days are
shortening,
light
failing too soon,
and all
that is left is darkness. And sadness.
Unimaginable
sadness.
4.
In
the old days – she used to say–
parents
were not like today. They
didn’t
hug
and
kiss
and
cheer their children on.
She
would say
don’t
cry.
You
make me cry.
She
would say
don’t
complain.
She
would say
why
are you unhappy? You have
everything.
We
were like ostriches
digging
our heads in the sand, avoiding any unpleasantness.
