Argentine Family

All Poems, Argentine Family, Family, Humor

We Got Seats

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We got seats! Uri teased.

As we entered the empty theater.

After gulping down dinner.

Hanging up on his family.

On video call from Montevideo.

Jumping into the car instead of walking.

To save time, make sure we got in.

Imagining the auditorium overflowing.

A line for tickets snaking around the block.

Bob dropped us off.

To find a parking space.

But, the theater was silent.

We, the first ones there.

Fifteen minutes to go.

Would anyone else walk in?

You don’t need your mask, advised Uri.

When he saw me fit it over nose, mouth.

As he bounded to the restroom.

Since we dashed out so quickly.

Then on return, he repeated, at least we got seats.

Sending us both into spasms of mirth.

Tears welling in our eyes.

Running down cheeks.

The state in which Bob found us.

When he burst through the door.

To claim a seat at our almost private screening.

Only a few patrons trickled in.

To keep us company.

The best part of the evening

was not the film we raced to see.

Rather, the tonic before it started.

The gleeful, freeing laughing spree.

 

Lynn Benjamin

September 19, 2023

All Poems, Argentine Family, Family, Memories

Uriel Never Remembers

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Uriel tells me he never remembers things from the past.

Places we took him to visit when he was fifteen.

Dinner parties he attended with us.

Gifts he agonized over to give his parents.

He’s a guy who lives in the present.

Juggles work, exercise, travel.

Tucking in extra projects from the World Bank.

Teaching himself a fifth or sixth language.

Even squeezing in a few days to visit us.

Between a hectic schedule in Pittsburgh.

An interview for team leader in New York.

Helping us to explore Chat GPT.

Editing some poetry in Spanish.

Accompanying us to botanical gardens.

Later to a movie.

Assuring us he’ll likely not remember the encounter.

A few months from now.

So, I was shocked during our ride home from the arboretum.

He actually announced a memory.

One of those sensory recollections.

That pop up from time to time.

Said, I still taste in my mouth that white fish salad from George’s.

Paused.

Continued, But, the white fish I buy never tastes like the fish from George’s.

So, Bob, quartermaster and host, turned the wheel toward the market.

To pick up a container for Uri’s lunch.

To satisfy gustatory longing.

For, indeed, his tongue remembered.

A taste from years gone by.

Now when he says his mind’s a blank,

I’ll know where memories lie.

 

Lynn Benjamin

July 25, 2023

 

All Poems, Argentine Family, Electronics, Family

Luisa on WhatsApp

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We just finished dinner.

When WhatsApp dinged.

There, on screen, a snapshot.

My ninety-year-old Argentine cousin.

Sent by Uriel, who lives in Pittsburgh.

He must be in Buenos Aires, I thought.

¿Estás en Bs As? I texted.

Estoy, he responded.

So, you went for your mother’s sixty-fifth birthday?

Yes, he typed.

What a good son! I exclaimed.

Went on, and now you’re visiting Great Aunt Luisa?

Yes! Do you want to video chat?

Which we did.

Four of us.

Uri and Luisa.

Bob and I.

Luisa entreating us to go see her.

We, wishing we could.

At ninety, she can’t come here.

The trip to her is long.

WhatsApp may have to host us all.

To keep connection strong.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 4, 2023

 

 

 

Aging, All Poems, Argentine Family, Birthdays, Family, Homages

Luisa Turned Ninety

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Luisa turned ninety yesterday.

In Buenos Aires.

All through the winter, she made note of it.

In WhatsApp.

Emails.

Almost ninety, she said.

Excusing herself from running around in the heat.

In fact, complaining about the heat.

Almost ninety. I can move from chair to chair.

Read, watch TV. It’s even too hot to write.

For Luisa is a writer.

Not a dabbler.

But a published author.

Of several volumes of short stories.

A biography of her mother, Rosa.

Her immigration to Buenos Aires.

From Ukraine.

Luisa’s books sit on my shelf.

Inspirations.

For what you can accomplish.

After seventy.

Luisa turned ninety yesterday.

She was my father’s first cousin.

Her mother, his aunt.

His mother, hers.

I met her briefly as a child.

When she lived near Philly.

Doing her medical residency.

But, much later I got to know her.

When I was in my late fifties.

She, nearly seventy.

Bob and I traveled with her and her sister.

Both their husbands.

Had long conversations.

Mostly in Spanish.

Some English.

From what she remembered.

Themes of life, living.

Families.

Children.

I was the new grandmother then.

She had growing grandkids.

She shared her mate.

Made sure we met all members of her family.

Took us for meals.

Served us cold grapes.

In the Argentine heat.

Accompanied us to the country.

To see where Fernando and Pauli were staying.

Confided about her shock when Osvaldo never woke up.

Soon after his retirement at seventy.

On another trip, visited her sister.

Dying of pancreatic cancer.

So many memories.

Sad ones.

Happy ones.

Luisa turned ninety yesterday.

Fernando sent photos.

So I could be there.

In spirit.

Though I’m even further away than usual.

In O’ahu.

But these days bridging present time is not hard.

I knew the faces at the party.

Little great-granddaughter, Renata, sat on her lap.

Luisa turned ninety yesterday.

Soon the heat will lift.

She’ll resume her writing workshops.

Maybe write a novel this year.

Who knows?

Luisa turned ninety yesterday.

Time’s a steady drumbeat.

Luisa offers footprints for my feet.

Keep your bearings, don’t retreat.

Find some friends with whom to meet.

Writing is a late life treat.

Waves of children make life sweet.

 

Lynn Benjamin

March 13, 2023

 

 

 

Aging, All Poems, Argentine Family, Family, Health/Illness, Loss, Pandemic

An Embrace

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At first dawn, I am swaddled.
Softness, aroma.
Soothing tones, ambrosial sweetness.
Sensuous suckling.

But over months,
I begin to sense myself.
My hands, feet, spine.
Sitting, reaching, walking, peering into corners.

I am not you.
My body, my triumphs are mine.
Even my pain belongs to me.

Coming to know myself takes years.
Maybe not perfect, but predictable, trustworthy.
I reject meat, favor vegetables.
Seek sunshine, not clouds.
Know all manner of delights.
Pleasing my skin, my nerves, my senses.

When this subtle equilibrium shatters
with a fall, a virus, a bacterium, a tumor,
even with the vagaries of aging,
I am ambushed, confused, shocked, desecrated.

My body ceases to be mine.
I do not recognize it for the stranger it has become.
I am alone, alien to my former self.

It is now I need wrapping again:
comprehension, acceptance, kindness.
Warm milk, an embrace.

By Lynn Benjamin
December 9, 2020

I wrote this poem for Nora who was recently stricken with Bells Palsy. It is inspired by all those who are injured, ill or aging. It also reflects my own sense of alienation during the pandemic.

All Poems, Argentine Family, Family, Spanish language, Thank-You

Un Sueño

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¿Recuerdas una vez cuando intentaste agarrar los pormenores de un sueño
que se iban evaporando en los rincones del cuarto?

El cuerpo vibraba con las consecuencias del recuerdo
mientras la mente no podía rellenar los huecos.

Pues, acabo de tener una experiencia
cuyos zarcillos no permitiré desaparecer.

Para mantener la imagen, plantaré semillas en
los pensamientos de dos jóvenes primos, dos parejas, y sus familias
en tres países y dos continentes.

Nunca perderemos nuestro sueño vuelto realidad
por los lazos vivos y cariñosos que nos conectan.

Con mil gracias a Uriel, Martín y sus familias que nos permitieron
cumplir este sueño
de Lynn
el 14 de Febrero de 2007

This is a thank you note to the families of Uriel and Martin who permitted them, when they were fifteen, to come stay with us in Dresher for a few months, attend school, and travel on weekends to numerous cities on the east coast. Uriel lived with his family in Buenos Aires, and Martin with his in Santiago de Chile. Both are cousins, grandsons of sisters, Luisa and Raquel, who were first cousins with my father, Samuel.

All Poems, Argentine Family, Family, Gardens, Invitations, Spanish language

Una Invitación

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Cuando estoy sola, solita en el huerto,
cuchicheo con ustedes,
mis primos argentinos.
Los invito a recoger las frutas,
las frutas de nuestra tierra.

Les hablo despacio en un castellano mío,
una mezcla de palabras y deseos de verlos.

Si vienen, mis primos,
si vienen a recoger la cosecha,
no tendré que hablar en cuchicheos
sino en canciones de alegría.

Y si vienen mis primos argentinos,
les hablaré en castellano suyo
porque mis deseos serán realidades.
Encontraré la gramática
y las palabras apropiadas
mientras comemos frambuesas y manzanas.

Les prepararé agua caliente
para tomar juntos el mate.
Charlaremos y nos reiremos
hasta los frutales queden vacíos
y nosotros llenos de frutos.

Lynn Benjamin
el 16 de octubre de 2005

We had a large vegetable and fruit garden at our house on Mayo Place. I wanted my Argentine cousins, Luisa and Raquel with their spouses, Osvaldo and Cisty, to come visit us there so we could share our produce and our love with them. Uriel, his sister, and his mother (Nora, daughter of Raquel) and father eventually did come to Mayo Place and enjoyed our vegetables and fruits.

 

All Poems, Argentine Family, Family, Spanish language, Stories

Ramas

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¿Sabes que en Bariloche se hacen montones de chocolates en rama?
Honran con dulces los árboles de los bosques argentinos
poblados por duendes mágicos.

Un día veraniego miré a un hacedor de bombones
que cortó una tabla de chocolate en trozos.
Y los puso en cajas para vender.
Imagino que es lo que le pasó a mi familia.
Se cortó en dos trozos y uno se fue a norteamérica
y el otro al cono sur.

Si me preguntas por qué,
te diré que no sé.
Lo único que sé por cierto
es que una rama habla inglés,
y la otra castellano.

Pero no creo que sea posible
dividirnos por idioma
porque tenemos dentro de todos
la dignidad de los arrayanes,
cuyas raíces se buscan a través de los continentes.
Tenemos la voluntad de nuestros antepasados rusos
no solo para sobrevivir
sino también para encontrarnos.

Deseo volver a poner los trozos enteros
en una tabla que supere el idioma y el sitio.
Que nos conecte por
los espíritus de los bisabuelos.
Que se esconden en nuestras manos, voces,
caras y pulmones.

Lynn Benjamin
(empezado el 24 de enero, 2006,Cerro Catedral;
terminado el 2 de marzo, 2006, Dresher)

All Poems, Argentine Family, Death, Family, Farewell, Loss, Spanish language

Para Luisa, Un Mensaje a Osvaldo

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Por la distancia y las millas,
no tuve la oportunidad, Osvaldo, de decirte adiós.
Aunque no te vuelva a ver ni a compartir un café,
siempre seguirás fijo en mis recuerdos
por los ratos agradables que pasamos
en Nueva York, Filadelfia, Buenos Aires, Colonia.

Te conozco como amigo-primo,
compañero inseparable de Luisa en todo.
Y en mi apodo para vos: Luisayosvaldo.

A la vez, sé por las palabras que me contabas
con tus propios labios
que jugabas muchos papeles:
hijo, hermano, esposo, suegro, cuñado, papá,
y abuelo de un clan
que te quiere y que te apoya en
esta última travesía.

Eras médico y jefe de medicina
en esa carrera larga que empezó en Buenos Aires
y que, no hace mucho tiempo,
terminó en Buenos Aires.

Eras viajero-aventurero,
empezando en Buenos Aires.
Luego, yéndote a lugares
en Sudamérica, Estados Unidos, Europa, y Rusia.

Ahora, Osvaldo, sigues solo en tus viajes,
a un destino desconocido.
Adonde yo, que te miro, todavía no me he atrevido a ir.

Tu valentía para dejar a los demás
me da consuelo y tranquilidad.
Espero que cuando me toque a mí
cruzar al más allá,
lo haga con la misma gracia que me has enseñado.

Un abrazo y un beso de tu amiga-prima
Lynn
El 4 de octubre, 2006

This was a note to my Cousin Luisa after her husband, Osvaldo, passed away. I felt I had just gotten to know him when he died. He retired from his position at the hospital in Buenos Aires at age 70. He died some months later in his sleep. He was a kind, gentle person, and we spent some quality time together  in New York, Buenos Aires, and Colonia.

 

All Poems, Argentine Family, Environment/Mother Earth, Family, Food, Humor, Seasons

October Finally Snapped To

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October finally snapped to after a sultry rain.
Ushering in cooler air, familiar autumnal scents.
Pine needles, dry leaves.
Motivating squirrels, chipmunks to hoard.
Sending geese flying to warmer climes.
Ripening Stayman-Winesaps, Jonathans, McIntoshes.
Rousing people to rummage for hats, scarves, gloves.
All the stars aligned.
Pumpkins will not rot from overheating in their patches.
Children will not swelter wandering through corn mazes.
Scarecrows will not crumple in hot sun.
Can we reassure ourselves for one more day
that one tip of one glacier might not melt?
We are barely into chilly Fall breezes.
Apples, pears, grapes in limitless varieties abound.
I wonder why my husband goes to a store,
purchases, fills our bowls to brimming with
persimmons, guavas, mangoes, mangosteens.
Maybe to warm the kitchen?
Honor novelty?
Migrate south in gustatory bliss?
Bond with Uriel, cousin and nomadic visitor.
Fond of the exotic, unusual.
It’s lucky Uri’s a contemporary Renaissance man.
Bob and he can settle down with tropical fruits, Spanish sherry.
I want to bond, too.
I choose words.

Lynn Benjamin
October 17, 2021