My Sin
My grandfather would stride down autumn streets
swept gold and russet by a wind so strong
it flung his prayer shawl wildly round his legs
(it was the long and heavy kind, rich ivory
and black with knotted fringes thick enough to braid).
He’d march, straight-backed with shoulders squared,
his arms swinging briskly back and forth.
From time to time his hands would shoot up
to his head to keep the gusts from carrying off
his skull cap, God forbid. He wasn’t old,
my Zeide, old only then to me, a little girl
of eight or so who dragged behind him,
far behind, so no one seeing us would guess
that we two were a pair.
Forgive me, Zeide. You were proud.
And I was so ashamed.
Yom Kippur, October 2003 (First published in Poetica, July 2004) |