The grandparents I never met
parents of the father I loved
secretive though he was
about them, him and them
Grandma and grandpa died
before I came along
never even met my mother
rarely were spoken of
Mentioned only essentially
names, dates – never
more than conversational
versions of headstones
Enigmas, all.
My father – close as
we were – who never said
mother who never asked
grandparents who . . ?
What would I have called
them, or them me?
Would I have picked up
their native Yiddish?
Knowing nothing I can
only guess; research the
clues I can hardly find
always longing for more
We are enigmas, all.
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2023
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
‘Knowing nothing I can
only guess; research the
clues I can hardly find
always longing for more’
Sadly, so true for many of us. That parental reticence to speak of personal/emotional matters. Your phrasing in particular reminds me of Terry Tempest Williams’ “When Women were Birds.” Have you read it? if not, you really must!! She constructs an entire memoir from the complete absence of words from her mother’s journals … I don’t want to spoil it for you, but really: Must Read!!!
Thank you.
Well, I have not read or heard of the Williams book – but am tracking it down now. Thanks – looks like a good one!
Glad you liked the poem.