| ![]() |
The Last Time I Saw My MotherHelen Bajorek McDonald |
|||||
1942 I was twelve years old So much we'd been through:
hard but happy times on a patch of peasant farm milk warm from her breasts Bread worked by steadfast hands Sunday clothes stitched with pure love As tailored elegance for a prince
A night you'd wish never to meet Hellish barking of foreign tongues Ugly glittering bayonets her hushed murmurings I'd come to hear more than see food
don't cry my little princess some day the nightmare will end some day we'll be free
sold her wedding ring, gold alchemized for food for her only child what a mother will do:
the train stopped at a small station on our way out near Krasnovodsk she got off with some women a whole bunch on a mission just a little bit of bread or grapes or anything we could eat and it started; pulled away slowly the last time I saw her running toward the moving train a frantic figure at the station arms outstretched with her bread offering
full eyes of tears a blurred ghost all I can see the last memory of my mother
Back to the January 2001 issue
|