by Joan Selinger Sidney

    Oaks drag alongside the road，

    weighted by yesterday‘s snow.

    There‘s Frauka walking alone，

    the hood 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—

    Holocaust 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 rim her eyes， her slim

    body shivers in the wind.

    For a moment we are closer

    in our sorrow than we‘ve ever been