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FATHER AND SON
We sat in the small boat,the motor still, drifting downstream,our lines in the water, the bobbersdancing in the morning breeze. He smiled, proud that we weredoing this together, he who knewless about fishing than I, his son,and I knowing next to nothing. I kept casting into the weeds,hoping they would tangle myline, free the worm…
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SONNET TO A PORTUGUESE
You came into my life last week, your nameforever locked away inside her mind.My life, she felt, would never be the sameand therefore left all thought of you behind.You loved her, I suppose, that summer nightthen left her, bearing me, until she turnedme over for adoption, that she mightforget the love that you so quickly…
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BLACK HOLE
The universe is populatedby an as yet unknownnumber of black holes,points of hyper-density whose gravityis so great thatanything gettingtoo close cannever escape,or so we wereoriginally told. Hawking suggestedthere is hopefor escape, someenergy closeto the eventhorizon mayradiate backinto the universe. In the blackhole that wasmy family,I, luckily, provedto be thatescaping energy.
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CAREER CHOICES
We were certain then that we’d bea success in life, that we’d drivethe kind of cars our fathersonly dreamed of as our motherschuckled about mid-life crises. They spoke about sons and daughtersof friends who were doctors,or at least lawyers, bemoanedthose who taught or held jobsthey called manual labor. But we were going in a whole…
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LIAR
It is a strange feeling to discover that youhave been made a liar by your own DNA. For years I was Jewish to the core, halfat least Sephardic, Portuguese, and thatnot merely extracted but fully blooded. My diet at Passover expanded greatly,no longer dictated by Northerners whoeasily banned that which they did not grow. But…
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DRINKING TEA IN KABUL*
Rockets flash brieflyacross the chilled sky,plumes of smoke, ashcarried offby impending winter. Over the lintel of the entryto the Inter-Continental Hotel Chicago,carved deeply into the marbleEs Salamu Aleikumstaring implacablythrough ponderousbrass framed doorsonto the Miracle Mile.Countless guestspass below itunseeing. My son and Isit across a small tablespilling bits of tapasonto the cloth,laughing lightlyat the young boybathed…
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BUCKET LIST
Crossing the Rubicon,or any other European Riverfor that matter. Skiing the backcountryor Black Diamond at Taos Mountainor Aspen or Vail. Hiking to the basecampof Everest, or walking some portionor all of the Appalachian Trail. Standing shoulder to shoulderwith hundreds of othersat the jazz festival. Hugging my sons orkissing my grandchildrenon their birthdays. Forgetting all that…
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JUST ONE MORE HAND
My parents, well my father,always felt is was necessaryto stop on the way to our summer homein the Western Adirondacksto visit Uncle Morris, who mayor may not have been an unclein the blood sense, it was never clear.It was he who sold my father the cottagenear the small lake, he who nowlived in a nursing…
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PARENTAL MOMENTS
My adoptive parents diedsix years apart, I receivedtwo announcement textsfrom the son they had together. We negotiated her obituary,and I am waiting for her funeral,but after seven years, I havegiven up hope of that happening. I did visit my birth mother’sgrave, placed a small stone on hers, watered the groundwith tears of sadness and joy at…
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an old writer and his words 