Next Door

    Oaks drag alongside the road，

    weighted by yesterday‘s snow.

    There‘s Frauka walking alone，

    the hood¹ of her parka

    snow-lit against the trees.

    I pull over.  How is he？  But before

    I can answer， I see them last

    summer： Frauka， and Father

    leaning on Mother， wanting to believe

    her will can make him well.

    Sitting on the lawn，

    pretending to read， I am unable

    to tell them， My legs won‘t walk.

    Go on without me.

    Eleven years I‘ve protected them—

    Holocaust² survivors—by not naming

    my disease.  Wishing them dead

    before they‘d see me in a wheelchair.

    Frauka whispers， My younger brother

    died one day before your father.

    Tears rim³ her eyes， her slim

    body shivers in the wind.

    For a moment we are closer

    in our sorrow than we‘ve ever been