by Linda Umans
A child’s memory after all. Limited view as “grandchild”
which really did not last long enough.
I knew him into my twenties. She died in the melancholy
September before I was eight.
They came from Hungary separately as children. Came together
in New York, Fanny and Sandor.
There was a tattered old portrait one aunt promised to restore
and never did. They looked like brother and sister, those long
fine noses, thick straight hair.
Personalities seemed not that far apart.
I never got much history. The incurious adults were no help.
I only knew Budapest (him) and the countryside (her).
In my memory they never conversed, relaxed together. Love
Life about work which seemed to be child-rearing
and survival. And solidarity. Workers’ rights. A living wage.
I loved them in the kitchen, those noses at right angles; he,
arranging twists of dough for baking, she, basting the roasting duck.
Two sturdy frames in odd concert in that kitchen.
I did well coming somewhere from this.