Grandmother By Mark Budman
What do I know about the clouds in Moldova, 1926?
Could they flow like today tiny, white, high above the dirt road streaming toward the soaked horizon like balloons lost in the wind?
Could they hug the low tree tops that unhinged their sharp branches like a bandit’s unsheathing a knife?
What do I know about traveling in Moldova, 1926?
Could a balagula, a driver, the reins in one hand, a wine bottle in the other, sing in Moldavian, glancing over his shoulder at a young girl in the back of a wagon to be married soon?
What do I know about men in Moldova, 1926?
Could a tall, muscled boy who jumped out of a Yeshiva’s window and never returned carry this girl over the threshold?
What do I know about myself, let alone about the world that’s gone?
I know, she lived through the War, through an exile to Siberia and immigration, through one child, two grandsons, three great-granddaughters, and through one Alzheimer’s.
But when I lift my face to Heaven, do you see me, my bobeh?