KAK

Her heroines were Pola Negri,

Gloria Swanson, and Mae West-

one for glamour, one for style,

one for nerve.

First on her scale

of praise came courage of the heart,

then brains, then something called

in Arabic “lightbloodedness.”

All

birds but owls she loved, all

that was green and growable,

including weeds, all operas

in Italian, the schmaltzier the better….

Lightning she feared, then age

since people thought the old

“unnecessary,” then living on

without us, then absolutely nothing.

Each time I’d say some girl

had perfect legs, she’d tell me

with a smile, “Marry her legs.”

Or if I’d find a project

difficult, she’d say, “Your mother,

Lottie, mastered Greek

in seven months.”

Or once

when Maris bested Ruth’s

home runs by one, she said,

“Compared to Ruth, who’s Harris?”

Crying while she stitched my shirt,

she said, “You don’t know

what to suffer is until

someone you love is suffering

to death, and what can you do?”

On principle she told one bishop

what she thought of him.

On personality she called one

global thinker temporarily

insane.

She dealt a serious

hand of poker, voted

her last vote for Kennedy,

and wished us a son two years

before he came.

She hoped

that she would never die

in bed.

And never she did.

“When you and your brother were young,”

she said, “and I was working,

then I was happy.”

And she was.

The folderol of funerals disgusted

her enough to say, “I’m

telling no one when

I die.”

And she didn’t.

One night she jotted down

in longhand on a filing card,

“I pray to God that I’ll be

with you always.”

And she is.

Download PDF