My paternal grandparents
came from Lithuania
and settled near what is today
Pelham Parkway – farm labourers
with lofty ideals and healthy bodies –
they both saw their ninetieth birthday.
Dad made it to 85.
They’re all buried here.
My mother wanted to be cremated.
I know less about my mother’s side,
and she shied away from mentioning
any affiliations other than
distant Welsh relatives. An odd choice
perhaps, but there you have it.
Both my brother and I received
a most commendable education
in New York schools and I truly believe
he would have made an excellent doctor
if he had not died in an automobile
accident when he was 27.
I think my choice to study medicine
was based in part on that loss,
but I was destined only to
marry a doctor. A fine man
who worked for the UN until
he died suddenly of a brain tumor.
It is so strange to think
of my immigrant grandparents
living until they were 90
while I didn’t even make it to 60.
Before I died, my daughter Edith
said the funniest thing to me –
that it was unfair that a woman
who could speak seven languages
should die in her fifties. That is
funny, don’t you think?
Spoonin on the river? Spoon River Rapids?
Trying to Master Masters? I recommend the