—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
IN THE EVENING
Faint sporadic voices coming from the street,
the words are indiscernible, but it doesn't matter.
They belong to that other world.
All that matters is that I am home.
It is the end of another day.
Ahead are the hours that belong to me alone.
I run water in the bathtub, hot, but not prohibitively so.
I can freshen it by adding more hot water later.
Moving slowly as the tub fills, I undress,
placing each item on the granite tub vanity.
Then I swing my left foot over the side of the tub
to test the water temperature with my toes.
Finding it satisfactory, I slide in, holding on to the grab bar.
This is the way it should be, settled, immersed in hot liquid,
warm, vaporous air kissing my face and arms.
I sing my mantra out loud, sweetly asking the water
to take away my cares as I melt into it.
A perfume smell from the smooth, oval soap bar
covers my body as I lather the soap on.
I study the art prints on the opposite wall,
mothers attending their children.
I remember my own mother.
She looked so much like one of them.
She used to bathe me when I was a child.
My tears mingle with the vapors in the room,
soothing tears.
Faint sporadic voices coming from the street,
the words are indiscernible, but it doesn't matter.
They belong to that other world.
All that matters is that I am home.
It is the end of another day.
Ahead are the hours that belong to me alone.
I run water in the bathtub, hot, but not prohibitively so.
I can freshen it by adding more hot water later.
Moving slowly as the tub fills, I undress,
placing each item on the granite tub vanity.
Then I swing my left foot over the side of the tub
to test the water temperature with my toes.
Finding it satisfactory, I slide in, holding on to the grab bar.
This is the way it should be, settled, immersed in hot liquid,
warm, vaporous air kissing my face and arms.
I sing my mantra out loud, sweetly asking the water
to take away my cares as I melt into it.
A perfume smell from the smooth, oval soap bar
covers my body as I lather the soap on.
I study the art prints on the opposite wall,
mothers attending their children.
I remember my own mother.
She looked so much like one of them.
She used to bathe me when I was a child.
My tears mingle with the vapors in the room,
soothing tears.
THE BAKER AND HIS FAMILY
Before Moishe and Shifra Rochel immigrated to America, they lived in Warsaw, Poland. Only the first three of their seven children had been born—two little girls and a baby boy. The year the family left, Zelda was four years old. One day she would be my Aunt Sylvia. Sylvia was the name she chose for herself, and was madly in love with. Sura, three became Sally. She would be my mother. The baby Menashe would be my Uncle Maxie.
Zelda and Sura were as different from each other as the winter wind from a spring breeze. Zelda was self-centered and bragged incessantly, while Sura tended to be timid, but had a strong concern for the welfare of others.
Their father, Moishe, baked bread and rolls. He was allowed to take the day-old bread home, where his wife, Shifra Rochel, a skilled, resourceful cook repurposed the dried bits of challah, rye, pumpernickel, and kaiser rolls to create many steamed, fried, braised, and baked delights. Bread, "manna from heaven", was the staple that kept them from hunger.
Shifra Rochel treated her children lovingly, but was harshly critical of her husband. The girls observed this interaction between their parents. It shaped their personalities. Each day Moishe returned home almost stealthily, he knew he would face his wife's derision as soon as she heard the lock in the door click.
On one evening when he entered and put the loaves and rolls in the bread box, the sisters wanted to greet him, but hesitated because they hated to hear their mother's tirade. They held back, remained in their room, watching and listening. "Why are you sneaking around?" Shifra Rochel said, frowning at him, from where she stood at the stove. "Can't you get home earlier?" "Yes, Mama,” he answered meekly, "I'll try."
In the Spring of 1912, they received a letter from Moishe's brother Abe, written in Yiddish. Neither Moishe nor Shifra Rochel could read in any language. Moishe took the letter to their neighbor, Izzy Tischler, who had attended a cheder school, where he learned to read and write in both Yiddish and Hebrew.
In the letter, Abe urged Moishe to join him in Pittston, Pennsylvania. Abe had established his own bakery/restaurant. He wanted to pay for the family's passage, so that Moishe and his wife could come to work for him. Izzy gave Moishe a pat on the back. "Gy gehzunt. I will miss you, my friend, but it is the right thing to do."
At home, Moishe told Shifra Rochel what was in the letter. "So what do you think, Shifra?" "I think if you had any sense, it would be you in America with a business instead of your brother." Moishe understood she wanted to go. Zelda and Sura were listening in their room. Zelda ran out, shouting, "Mama, Papa, I'm going to be an American." Sura wasn't so sure she was ready for America.
Moishe asked Izzy Tischler to write to Abe accepting his offer. As soon as Abe's check arrived in the mail, he made the arrangements, booking passage on a ship that would take them to New York. Abe would meet the family in New York and they all would travel to Pittston on the Pennsylvania Railroad.
Izzy picked them up in a horse-drawn wagon on a sunny day to bring the family to the pier and say his goodbyes. He filled the wagon with bales of hay for them to sit on. Moishe lifted Sura first and placed her on one of the haystacks. As he did, something fell from her pocket into the wagon. Shifra Rochel, holding baby Menashe, snatched it up and held it so they could all see. It was a kaiser roll with an abundance of poppy seeds on top. Surale, why did you bring a roll?" "Mama," she said softly, I want to make sure we have something to eat in America."
Before Moishe and Shifra Rochel immigrated to America, they lived in Warsaw, Poland. Only the first three of their seven children had been born—two little girls and a baby boy. The year the family left, Zelda was four years old. One day she would be my Aunt Sylvia. Sylvia was the name she chose for herself, and was madly in love with. Sura, three became Sally. She would be my mother. The baby Menashe would be my Uncle Maxie.
Zelda and Sura were as different from each other as the winter wind from a spring breeze. Zelda was self-centered and bragged incessantly, while Sura tended to be timid, but had a strong concern for the welfare of others.
Their father, Moishe, baked bread and rolls. He was allowed to take the day-old bread home, where his wife, Shifra Rochel, a skilled, resourceful cook repurposed the dried bits of challah, rye, pumpernickel, and kaiser rolls to create many steamed, fried, braised, and baked delights. Bread, "manna from heaven", was the staple that kept them from hunger.
Shifra Rochel treated her children lovingly, but was harshly critical of her husband. The girls observed this interaction between their parents. It shaped their personalities. Each day Moishe returned home almost stealthily, he knew he would face his wife's derision as soon as she heard the lock in the door click.
On one evening when he entered and put the loaves and rolls in the bread box, the sisters wanted to greet him, but hesitated because they hated to hear their mother's tirade. They held back, remained in their room, watching and listening. "Why are you sneaking around?" Shifra Rochel said, frowning at him, from where she stood at the stove. "Can't you get home earlier?" "Yes, Mama,” he answered meekly, "I'll try."
In the Spring of 1912, they received a letter from Moishe's brother Abe, written in Yiddish. Neither Moishe nor Shifra Rochel could read in any language. Moishe took the letter to their neighbor, Izzy Tischler, who had attended a cheder school, where he learned to read and write in both Yiddish and Hebrew.
In the letter, Abe urged Moishe to join him in Pittston, Pennsylvania. Abe had established his own bakery/restaurant. He wanted to pay for the family's passage, so that Moishe and his wife could come to work for him. Izzy gave Moishe a pat on the back. "Gy gehzunt. I will miss you, my friend, but it is the right thing to do."
At home, Moishe told Shifra Rochel what was in the letter. "So what do you think, Shifra?" "I think if you had any sense, it would be you in America with a business instead of your brother." Moishe understood she wanted to go. Zelda and Sura were listening in their room. Zelda ran out, shouting, "Mama, Papa, I'm going to be an American." Sura wasn't so sure she was ready for America.
Moishe asked Izzy Tischler to write to Abe accepting his offer. As soon as Abe's check arrived in the mail, he made the arrangements, booking passage on a ship that would take them to New York. Abe would meet the family in New York and they all would travel to Pittston on the Pennsylvania Railroad.
Izzy picked them up in a horse-drawn wagon on a sunny day to bring the family to the pier and say his goodbyes. He filled the wagon with bales of hay for them to sit on. Moishe lifted Sura first and placed her on one of the haystacks. As he did, something fell from her pocket into the wagon. Shifra Rochel, holding baby Menashe, snatched it up and held it so they could all see. It was a kaiser roll with an abundance of poppy seeds on top. Surale, why did you bring a roll?" "Mama," she said softly, I want to make sure we have something to eat in America."
BALANCE
Teeter tottering on a tightrope
in the circus that is life,
I remember an agile walker
whose every step was quick and sure,
gliding across the distance
with unerring confidence.
Leaning left, straightening, swaying right,
never going to extremes,
certain to avoid a slip and fall.
How I admired his journey.
I learned the secret he possessed.
All life is based on balance.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE SKY
—Linda Klein
The sky is an ocean on its own
with clouds that sail like ships.
One day we will book passage home.
The moon guides heavenly trips.
____________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
Teeter tottering on a tightrope
in the circus that is life,
I remember an agile walker
whose every step was quick and sure,
gliding across the distance
with unerring confidence.
Leaning left, straightening, swaying right,
never going to extremes,
certain to avoid a slip and fall.
How I admired his journey.
I learned the secret he possessed.
All life is based on balance.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
THE SKY
—Linda Klein
The sky is an ocean on its own
with clouds that sail like ships.
One day we will book passage home.
The moon guides heavenly trips.
____________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
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Just remember:
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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!
