At my parents’ place, I notice
my mom’s stooped posture,
her gray hair, rough hands, wrinkled forehead,
her incessant need to feed others.
Her apartment is like a war zone of
familiar clutter and chaos,
the scent of the chicken soup
spilled on the kitchen table,
mashed potato smeared on the chair.
I step on papers spread all over the floor.
With a sigh of recognition,
I realize I am reading the story of her life:
of her parents and her sister
that she saved in the Holocaust
at the last moment;
the death of her three brothers in the war
inscribed in the creases of her face;
sacrifice, embodied in her stooped posture.
Arduous life tasks performed in passing,
with “what needs to be done,
has to be done” resolve.
My mom never utters the word love
as if the word is loaded
with hundreds of pounds of awkwardness.
Instead, she lives the love with silent fortitude.
A glimpse of her momentary smile
captures my heart with swift sadness…

3/26/2005