..and was wondering what happened to all the languages in my father’s head

when he died?

…and I was thinking about my death, how, a death with many short memories,

contacts, moments ,,,so ready ….

Then, you walked into the library and our eyes saw ….

We walk up the sierra, across the new, river-stone bridge,

And the rain falls, drippy.

No hands held;

You explain the neighbors see all,

From our climb, to the teen on horseback,

Her trailing horse loaded with short firewood sticks.

…to a mountain stream, clear water, above homes and farms,

Black-eyed tiny fish swim over the rocks.

Green hills vertically up from the stream.

You reach for my hand, worried I’ll slip on red mud.

No neighbors to see.

Your hand – strong – years of clothes washing.

Twilight rain falls, heavy.

We walk out of the sierra.

You insist I take one of your umbrellas.

“Give it back tomorrow when we have breakfast, gorditas, together.”

She turns to walk, again, up the sierra,

A fast embrace before ….

I’ll leave the red mud on my trouser cuffs – for a long time ….


Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky, early July 2015

Author: Gene Novogrodsky

Eugene “Gene” Novogrodsky, a Brownsville resident for nearly three decades, writes North American border slices, from eastern Canada to central Mexico, and in between. He is one of the founders of the Narciso Martinez Cultural Arts Center Writers Forum in San Benito. He sometimes participates with the informal Resaca Writers Group in Brownsville. He prefers, however, to read to two or three attentive listeners – when asked!


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