I stuck out my thumb,
hitched a ride to your suburb
one May day for no reason
I could fathom.
Just hadn't seen you,
you of the chicken soup,
matzo balls, borscht,
chicken a la King over mashed potatoes,
best damn thin pancakes I ever ate,
applesauce and sour cream.
Jewish scion of our family,
all holidays at your house.
Guess I had nothing to do.
A committed campus radical,
no anti-war demonstrations that day.
Stuck out my thumb,
surprised your afternoon.
Didn't go well.
You knew my politics,
pleaded with me to stop.
"You are so naive. Don't you
know the Communist Party
is behind your activities,
pays for everything!”
Grandma, the Communist Party
is like an old horse
no one wants to ride any more.
The War is terrible.
It must be stopped.
We never agreed.
Tension sat in the room
like a bad diagnosis.
But I am sure we hugged
before I thrust my thumb towards campus.
A couple of weeks later,
when you died in the waiting room—
“Because they did not get to her in time,”
my Aunt screamed to me over the phone.
Grandmother Rose—
how did you remember me?
Originally published in Communicator's League