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UNTIL
I was the adoptee,was the whole for years, until. It is always the untilthat is your undoing, wasmine when sheremarried, then two births. I was one third then, neveragain truly whole and whenshe died I discoveredin her will I was onlyone twentieth, andthen never even that. I want to forget her,forget them, denythem, but all…
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STET-US QUO
The mind can bea brutal editor, revisinghistory, rejecting memorieswithout a substantial rewrite. My step sister, many yearsdead remains five, thatyoung face engraftedon the woman ravagedby unrelenting cancers. My first wife of 30 yearsis mostly faceless, themental pictures and dreamsedited until only sheis unrecognizable. And in moments of reflectionI am no longer adopted,the step-siblings were,but they…
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MAGIC MIRROR ON THE WALL
The face in the mirror this morningwas not mine, perhaps it wasthat of my grandparents, allI never met, having onlyold and faded pictures that vaguelyresemble the mirror’s face. It might be my parents, bothdead before I found them onlyyearbook pictures and just possiblea vague similarity to the facethat i see in the mirror each day.…
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WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
My history is like an ill-sewn quilt, odd piecesof parents stitched looselytogether, always ready to comeapart, fade or be thrown away. Perhaps my history ismore like a belovedold pair of jeans, holesappear and are patched,patches wear out and arereplaced, or the hole isjust left, as if it weresomehow a fashion statement. There is little normalwhen…
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SUNDAY MORNING
Every Sunday morning my parents,usually my father at mother’s directionwould drive me the four blocksto attend Sunday school. I could easily have walked, a longblock and a half by cutting through yards,but they were afraid of I haveabsolutely no idea what. My friends that weren’t there with mewere probably in church soit wasn’t like I…
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IN MY BAG
I carry my pastin a monk’s bagthat rests on my shoulder. In it you will findmy history, or bitsof it, names I havebeen given, given up,memories of childhood,pictures of my parentswho I never knew,aged in my mind fromthe photos in yearbooks,all that I have of them.. I still have roomin my bag, perhapsmore room than…
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OF THE CHILD
How many times have weheard someone intonethe never ending expression:“in the best interests of the child.” Never, I imagine, has anyoneasked the child what he or shethought was in their best interest,for children, we assume, cannotknow what is in their interest. A child would gladly tell youbut an adult would often disagree,anchored to the memoryof…
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HOME
I have never beento Liszkowo but I have beento Charleston, West Virginiaand visited the B’nai Jacob Cemeteryand for me, that is as closeas I need to come to Liszkowofor I don’t speak Lithuanianthough it runs through my veins.I have visited the Highlandsand the Isle of Islaybut I never saw myfather’s kin reach out to me,although…
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ANCESTRY
Children have an innate senseof their ancestry.I was a child of the cityit’s streets my paths, alwaysunder the watchful eyeof my warden – mother. Dirt was to be avoidedat all possible cost,so I never dug my handsinto the fertile soil of myvillage in the heart of Lithuania,or tasted the readying harvestthat dirt would remember. I…
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TREASURES
I keep in my pocketall the treasures of my family,all of the keepsakes from my mother,and those from my fathergiven to me when they died. I would share them with you,but they are highly personaland would not mean much to onewho never knew my parentsor my step brother, the one with whom I have not…
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an old writer and his words 