Parents

All Poems, Family, Loss, Parents, Politics, Prose/memoir

What Would my Father Say this Memorial Day?

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My thoughts drift to my father on many occasions.

His birthday, yahrzeit.

Father’s Day, wedding anniversary.

Certainly, Memorial Day.

Designated to honor generations of veterans.

Sacrificing life and limb for our nation.

My father flew a B-24 during World War II.

Helping to liberate France.

Defeat Hitler.

End the Holocaust.

Maintain freedom against fascism, autocracy.

Allowing his children to grow up believing in democracy.

In certain inalienable rights.

Each person, equal.

No person above the law.

Life, liberty, pursuit of happiness.

What would my father say today?

If he could see democracy at risk?

Threats to abandon established governmental norms?

Like peaceful transfer of power?

Corruption in the Supreme Court?

A presidential candidate indicted on eighty-eight felony counts?

Overturn of Roe v Wade?

Rampant anti-Semitism?

What would my father say?

To officials conspiring to steal elections?

Undermine the balance of power?

Disadvantage swaths of voters?

Demand loyalty to party over Constitution?

What would my father say to me, my siblings?

Would he rail and holler?

Roll his eyes, shrug?

This man, whose parents fled Russia.

To rear family without fear, in safety.

From persecution, pogroms.

What would my father say?

For his wise words, I yearn.

I suppose I’ll never hear them.

It’s time I take my turn.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 27, 2024

Yahrzeit is the anniversary of the death of a loved one.

 

All Poems, Birthdays, Emotions, Family, Farewell, Holidays, Homages, Love, Memories, Natural Beauty, Parents, Passover, Trees

I Wish I Could

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I wish I could take my father’s hand.

Amble together through Spring’s annual spectacle.

He’d be one hundred three, the first Seder.

Moving to this town before I did.

Passing away before I settled nearby.

Departing on his ninety-seventh birthday.

So, this April stroll, fitting.

By turns, under fickle drizzles, sunny skies.

Admiring lindens, oaks, maples.

Unfurling leafy banners by the thousands.

After restful winter naps.

Or, flowering cherries, crabapples, plums.

Already sailing blossoms along gusty currents.

Assembling petal carpets along roadways, grass.

How about magnolias?

A favorite for the seed pods he collected.

Tended to on a windowsill.

Or dogwoods, like ones he cultivated years ago?

Blooming in flamboyant abundance.

While Viburnum bouquets perfume the air.

Making our passage regal.

Then, parades of flowers by our feet.

Though daffodils fading, tulips, lavender, yellow, red, stand.

Rows of heavenly chalices.

Grape hyacinths, irises spilling over in purples, yellows.

Phlox, violets, bushy clumps peeking through rocks.

Hosta lilies poking up in clustered stems.

One last tree before farewells.

The potted lemon, now outside, imbibing April breezes.

Popping buds to deliver fruits in December.

Once his to water, trim, fertilize.

Now my household, its steward.

If only wishes could come true,

how blissful I would be.

To watch the springtime world renew

in my father’s company.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 22, 2024

 

Aging, All Poems, Family, Mother Love, Parents, Sleep, Spain, Trips and Places

Improbable Floats in Dreams

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The improbable floats in dreams.

While in Valencia, asleep.

My mother comes.

Driving a white Olds station wagon.

Dropping me off for a childbirth class.

Still parked when I race out to hand her a mat.

I couldn’t haul around all day.

Relieved, I think how reliable she is.

There to pick up the pieces.

When my eyes open.

To see my face in the mirror.

Lines, puffy skin, swollen lids.

Exactly my mother in old age.

Why had she come to me?

Was it the pile of postcards on the table?

Like the ones I wrote to her?

Daily, when traveling.

The scarves I saw in shop windows?

Jewelry?

LLadró?

The gifts I carried home to her.

All those reminders of journeys.

Thoughts of my mother far away.

Wanting to please, to comfort her

like she did for me, each day.

 

Lynn Benjamin

January 15, 2024

 

 

All Poems, Birthdays, Death, Family, Mother Love, Parents, Time

Birthday Card

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In years gone by, I would have prepared a birthday card.

To give to my mother.

Born on October 3rd.

Instead, I visit her.

In the cemetery.

On Saturday, Shabbat.

Three days prior to her special day.

Because there are no funeral processions.

It’s quiet, no hustle bustle.

No snaking lines of cars.

Just the perfect stillness.

To study the stone.

Hebrew letters, engravings.

Recount to her what’s going on.

Things that would interest her.

Her first grandchild becoming a cantor.

Tidbits about nine great grandchildren.

Impossible not to notice hundreds of markers.

Surrounding hers.

People who once breathed.

Toddled, ran, worked.

Like you and I.

My reverie interrupted.

By a brown spider.

Skittering up the stone.

Staring back at me.

Deft, sprightly.

Perhaps finding a safe place to make a home.

Or just to wander.

Among the foliage.

Maybe, like I, intrigued by nearby dogwood, Cyprus.

Canopies intertwined.

Dancing?

Embracing?

Reminders all to prize your eyes.

Move muscles, be caring, kind.

Feel your breath, in, then out.

For you can’t live overtime.

 

Lynn Benjamin

October 3, 2023

 

All Poems, Birthdays, Death, Family, Loss, Parents

My Mother Won’t Be Calling

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My mother won’t be calling, whispered Bob.

As I tiptoed from the room.

Hearing his voice, I turned around.

Chimed, Happy birthday!

Wondering what he meant to say.

Did he miss her call?

Did he miss her?

Did he miss their ritual quibble?

The tug-of-war over whose birthday it really was?

After all, she’d say, I was the one in labor.

He’d scoff.

Reclaim the day as his.

But, she hadn’t picked up the phone for six years.

Wheelchair bound in a home.

Without memory of dates, occasions.

My mother won’t be calling, said Bob,

turning seventy-five.

Recalling past hard-to-please days

when she was still alive.

 

Lynn Benjamin

September 27, 2023

 

Aging, All Poems, Family, Mother Love, Parents

Relic

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I own a relic.

A nightgown given me by my mother.

Likely fifty years ago.

Worn in warm weather.

Home, other places around the globe.

About to be packed for the next trip.

When I note holes in the fabric.

Where the cotton wears thin.

From use, washing.

Maybe from drying in a machine.

Rather than on a line.

Would it have lasted longer?

Had I taken better care of it?

Did I cause the garment to tatter?

Examining it closer.

In a way I had not before.

The smocked top.

Appliquéd roses.

Delicate short sleeves.

Lace and ruffles around the bottom.

Roses and bird pattern.

Perhaps hummingbirds.

Though hard to make out now.

For the fading.

I touch the material with my hand.

Feeling my mother’s care in its selection.

Imaging her choosing it for me.

Her careful inspection.

Maybe roses for my middle name.

Birds, for guidance.

For certain, an offering of love.

Why had I not recognized its essence?

Why treasure it now?

When too frayed to wear?

Too delicate?

Too late?

A mystery I can’t unfold.

Epiphany at demise.

Waiting o’er the years for me

to see with older eyes.

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 4, 2023

All Poems, Death, Family, Loss, Parents

Yahrzeit Light

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Your father’s yahrzeit light just went out, noted Bob.

A moment after we lit Shabbat candles.

His memorial, kindled on his birthday, April 22nd.

Then daily in spurts.

Each stretch we were home to watch it.

It comforted us on the counter.

Small reminder of his presence.

His guidance.

Wisdom.

Lightheartedness.

He never knew we moved to Elkins Park.

The neighborhood he lived in before leaving us.

Just three days after his ninety-seventh birthday.

So, it was fitting to draw out the candle.

For several days.

To commemorate the time between birth and death.

To keep him close.

Talk to him.

Too bad, Dad, we didn’t coincide

in the same postal zone.

Till after you had left us.

Name carved on a stone.

For if we had been closer,

you’d ne’er have been alone.

I’d have walked to see you daily.

Forget the telephone.

Though now, no longer with us.

But in the great Unknown,

I know that you would swell with pride

for the clan that you have sown!

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 28, 2023

 

 

All Poems, Birthdays, Family, Parents

One Hundred Two Years

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The Empress tree reaches to embrace the day.

And my father.

With one hundred-two blooms.

Sweet perfumes.

Lavender candles for his cake.

That, without doubt, I would make.

Served on cherry blossoms, soft pink table.

Along a hillside, not too stable.

His children, theirs, and all the grands.

He, in the middle.

All clasping hands.

Pull out the lemon tree.

Give him our news.

He’d listen intently.

Faces peruse.

After a song, herbal tea, a treat,

each would hug him.

Then he’d retreat.

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 22, 2023

 

Adult Children, All Poems, Family, Holidays, Jewish Holidays, Parents

Don’t Expect Me

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Don’t expect me to be here next year for Pesach, said my daughter.

The same warning she issued at each holiday since Rosh Hashanah.

For she’ll be interning at a synagogue.

Leading services.

Unable to attend events in Philadelphia.

Her declaration not unlike my own mother’s.

When she moved to Florida many years ago.

By default, handing all gatherings she mounted to me.

Or, like my mother-in-law’s.

Announcing in her seventies, she was too old to make holiday meals.

Passing the job to me.

I took those assignments seriously.

Organizing celebrations over forty years.

Now, my assemblage is shrinking.

My stamina wanes.

Who can I pass the baton to?

My children all live far away.

My sisters dwell in small spaces.

Nieces not yet situated.

It’s not even that I want to turn it over.

I relish entertaining.

Cooking, baking, setting tables.

Gathering family.

If I could go on forever,

forever would I go.

But life is unpredictable.

Tomorrow, who can know?

 

Lynn Benjamin

April 8, 2023

 

All Poems, Family, Loss, O'ahu/Honolulu, Parents, Trips and Places

Visit to Pearl Harbor

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Have you ever wanted to share something?

With a special person?

Who’s no longer here?

You wanted to so badly, the conversation just popped out?

And you provided responses?

Because you knew what the other would say?

It doesn’t happen often to me.

But, today it did.

After the visit to Pearl Harbor.

The quiet walk along the grounds.

The tours of two museums.

I just wanted to tell my father.

Because he’d understand.

The upset.

Humiliation.

Sadness.

Loss.

Anger.

That stirred inside me.

For the savage stealth attack.

Tragic deaths, uniformed and civilian.

Injuries.

But also for the naiveté of our armed forces.

Lack of coordination, organization.

False belief in their own invincibility.

My father would acknowledge the sorrow.

Say commanders often made mistakes.

But it didn’t justify the brutal attack

by Japan on the United States.

My father would shake his head.

An enlistee before that date.

Pearl Harbor thrust him into war.

Changed his direction, his fate.

 

Lynn Benjamin

March 12, 2023