Family Tree

 

—Poetry by Linda Klein, Los Angeles, CA, 

with a LittleNip by Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), Sacramento, CA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

THE LONG WAY HOME
—Linda Klein

Pain from slipping and falling on an icy sidewalk, months before, was back again, like a sword stabbing me through the length of my left leg, sudden and unexpected, as I stepped down from the bus.  I grabbed the sign pole at the bus stop and swung over to the bench meant for waiting passengers.  I contemplated my five-block walk home, knowing the only way I could make it would be to crawl on my hands and knees, and I couldn't do that either.

I don't know how long I sat there.  It was a deserted area with no homes or stores.  I had no phone to call my father, who was waiting for me to return from work.  He'd be worried and wondering what had happened to me.  He'd call my work number.  By then no one would be there.

I looked to my left anxiously, down the road I walked each day when coming home.  In the soft, dimming light, I saw a bobbing figure, but wasn't able to judge whether it was coming toward me or walking away, a man, yes, coming closer, a familiar shape.  This was definitely my dear dad with his slight gouty limp.  I began crying.  I had never felt so thrilled to see him.  In my excitement, I tried to get up and go to him, but slid back down, screeching as that merciless sword thrust through my leg.

Dad came over and put his arms around me.  Then with my left arm over his right shoulder and around his neck, his right arm around my waist, we slowly made our way through the shadows, dad limping and me hopping.

 

 

 

 

 

FILLING THE VOID
—Linda Klein

At a time when Dad and I
were both still working,
shortly after my mother had passed away,
I heard him at the door, turning his key in the lock.

He walked into the kitchen and exclaimed,
"Ah, that smells so good!  I could smell them
through the door."  It was odd to hear this
from a critical man.  Such a surprise.

I piled the potato latkes on a plate for him,
exactly ten, and watched him sink his teeth into them.
I was happy to be appreciated.  It rarely happened.

The remaining five were for me,
the same way my mother apportioned them.
The last time he had latkes were those mom made.
We ate silently together, with our own thoughts,
although it was uncomfortable.
I remembered Mom standing and grating potatoes,
so many potatoes, and onions, sniffing,
wiping tears from her eyes.

We never talked about her.
I tried to at the beginning,
but I couldn't bear the things he would say.
I don't know how he could say them.
Was meanness a way to salve his conscience?
Better silence, each of us filling the void with food.

 

 

 

 

WALKING ON HIS SOLES
—Linda Klein

An old wive's tale that circulated among European Jewish women in my grandmother's time warned that if anyone wore the shoes of a deceased individual, he walked on the soul of that person.

My father never owned more than two pairs of shoes at a time, a black pair and a brown pair.  His shoes got a lot of wear, for he was a great walker.

He polished them every evening for work the next day, using his collection of polishes and brushes while I watched, as he buffed them to the rhythm of his whistling "You Are My Sunshine".  I loved to breathe in the scent of the pungent wax.

During the forties and the fifties in Manhattan, there were shoeshine stands everywhere, where a shoeshine boy would polish your shoes to a gleaming finish right on your feet for a dollar.

Some weekends, Dad and I took the subway to 42nd Street.  He'd step up onto a wooden platform, sit on a leather upholstered chair, and the boy, often an elderly man, would snap out a rough, buffing rag.  "Sit here, Missy," he'd say to me, pointing to the edge of the platform.

When Father's shoes were nearly as bright as my patent leather Mary Janes, he'd hand the shoeshine boy a dollar plus a two-bit tip, and off we'd walk to Radio City Music Hall to see a movie and a stage show.

Many years later, we moved to Los Angeles.  When Dad died, I gave his clothing to various thrift shops, all but for his prized shoes.  Those I gave to his friend, Mr. Rubinfeld, who promised to give them, in turn, to their synagogue to be burned.

Father had walked on those leather soles until they were worn thin, but no one would walk on his soul, just in case those old wives were right.

 

 

 

 

 

FAMILY TREE
—Linda Klein

Firmly planted many years ago,
Its branches reach far and wide.
Over an enormous space it grows,
carrying a tradition of pride.

Its leaves, through the years, remained green.
When time and seasons made each age and fall,
new life could once again be seen
budding and blooming over all.

May distance never sever the bond
that exists between common roots.
Strength and love within a sturdy tree is found.
Its origins affirm its truths.

________________

 

Today's LittleNip:

IT’S A DAD SORT OF THING
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

any excuse to
shop at a hardware store put
a smile on his face

_________________

Our thanks to Linda Klein and Carl Schwartz—and yesterday, Michael H. Brownstein and Nguyenvan Luat—for helping us celebrate Father’s Day (as well as the Summer Solstice!) with so much fine poetry! 

Due to Father’s Day, there will be no open mic or reading at Lincoln Poets Club today.

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!