Once, on Ninth Avenue, while
the sun fell
I admitted your ragged coat,
But what was true then turned
round. For I
When the conviviality reaches
a certain volume,
She puts on sunglasses to make
And how are you?
She has come over me this way
There is where I learned
The skies brighten up in a sad
Their faces are not happy anymore;
they don't reflect the warrior's soul that takes them
Proud and heartbroken, their
sons, daughters, wives, mothers all cry out loud
It was a cloudy Friday morning.
Our English Professor Abby Bogomolny came into class with light
steps, almost skipping, with a mysterious smile on her face.
Her eyes were sparkling.
"Oh, sure... if angels
really exist, why are there so many troubles in this world?"
When the clock on the wall said
at Nine-fifteen sharp, something came in through the open window
and glided across the room. At first Toshi though they were dust,
or down feathers, or they might be parachutes of thousands of
How does one explain death to
five, small children who have never left the environs of
the backyard or other sheltered places? Who never had a
pet or saw anything die? The grandparents were just gone, that
was not wondered about. If questions were asked, the off-hand response
was: "Oh, they died years ago." So the words to die
or death had no real meaning and the subject was never brought
After some confusing words spoken by an unfamiliar man, those attending were invited or rather expected to file past the casket. We followed Mother, and to my horrified and unbelieving eyes there lay Aunt Kate, My Aunt Kate, looking like a waxen doll. We left the building in silence.
When we arrived home, I asked: "You said Aunt Kate was dead. What does dead mean? Did it hurt?" Mother's gentle reply "No, it did not hurt. It's like going to sleep and never waking up," left me speechless and terrified.
Thereafter, I was afraid to go to sleep and the usual bedtime prayer "now, I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take," took on a new and terrifying meaning, and I never said it again.
Even now, when I have intellectually come to terms with the inevitable reality of death and accepted my conception of it, I find, on occasion and unexpectedly a sudden rising of that childhood terror.
I know that experiences of childhood are engraved in the book of memories, never to be erased, but also that distance and understanding will ease the fear and the pain of emotion they cause.
The wind came up so quickly
A mystery it seems to me
The lake as I watched it