March 2013
I've read at least since I was four-and-a-half (I can date it it because I remember "White" and "Colored" signs over drinking fountains in Norfolk and we moved to Boston that spring)..
Other than school essays, I've been writing since sophomore year at Boston Latin when I learned that I could recite my own compositions during monthly declamation. I continue because I gave up the choice not to.
Writing is an act of defiance. Against the Babel of too many inputs. Against tongue-tied adolescence.
At the same time, writing must be a reaching out, a way of helping the reader as we navigate the labyrinth through which we stumble together.
Other than school essays, I've been writing since sophomore year at Boston Latin when I learned that I could recite my own compositions during monthly declamation. I continue because I gave up the choice not to.
Writing is an act of defiance. Against the Babel of too many inputs. Against tongue-tied adolescence.
At the same time, writing must be a reaching out, a way of helping the reader as we navigate the labyrinth through which we stumble together.
The Year She Was Twenty-nine
My parents were still married
to each other
the first year Mother was twenty-nine
living apart
Dad recruiting in Indiana
Mother and us three home in East Boston
but they were still married
On the way home from school
my little sister in tow
I remember always checking
that the Wasp was still docked across the harbor
when I turned the corner onto Trenton Street
They had a Ford station wagon
white with wood grain flashes
really too big for a city car
My soon to be uncle Bob drove an early Bug
Next year
when we drove to Norfolk to meet my new step-mother
Dad would have a Falcon
Mother chose to stay twenty-nine until I left for Cambridge
to each other
the first year Mother was twenty-nine
living apart
Dad recruiting in Indiana
Mother and us three home in East Boston
but they were still married
On the way home from school
my little sister in tow
I remember always checking
that the Wasp was still docked across the harbor
when I turned the corner onto Trenton Street
They had a Ford station wagon
white with wood grain flashes
really too big for a city car
My soon to be uncle Bob drove an early Bug
Next year
when we drove to Norfolk to meet my new step-mother
Dad would have a Falcon
Mother chose to stay twenty-nine until I left for Cambridge
Monument
Cover the mirrors
shed a tear
she has gone
Welcome her
friends who’ve gone before
help her rest
the journey was long
she needs a cat on her lap again
Set her between grandparents
among the generations she’d tell
as others tell beads
Let the lives she bore be her monument
shed a tear
she has gone
Welcome her
friends who’ve gone before
help her rest
the journey was long
she needs a cat on her lap again
Set her between grandparents
among the generations she’d tell
as others tell beads
Let the lives she bore be her monument
I used to believe
Losing Santa Claus
made me so much more grown up
than the little sister who chased me with worms
around that first yard
Mother blaming me for Goggie’s dying
even though I had lit the candles
was harder
Losing Santa Claus
made me so much more grown up
than the little sister who chased me with worms
around that first yard
Mother blaming me for Goggie’s dying
even though I had lit the candles
was harder
Early morning drowsing soon after a yahrzeit
Mother had died
at last
and during that dying
her apartment
the one on Princeton Street where we
your mother and uncle and I
grew up
stayed cluttered
It was time to close it
Mother had given us the green platter --
a soap box premium perhaps --
when we married
and other remembrances across the years
we have a small place now barely enough
for the rocker from Tampa or the loveseat from the cantor in California
we can't fit the formica table from her kitchen
or the sheets for her double bed
Tell your mother and uncle
keep what they want from the old place
lock the doors behind
It's time to close
at last
and during that dying
her apartment
the one on Princeton Street where we
your mother and uncle and I
grew up
stayed cluttered
It was time to close it
Mother had given us the green platter --
a soap box premium perhaps --
when we married
and other remembrances across the years
we have a small place now barely enough
for the rocker from Tampa or the loveseat from the cantor in California
we can't fit the formica table from her kitchen
or the sheets for her double bed
Tell your mother and uncle
keep what they want from the old place
lock the doors behind
It's time to close