From My Mother's House

My mother's mother died

In the spring of her days, and her daughter

Did not remember her face. Her countenance, engraved

On my grandfather's heart,

Was erased from the world of images

After he died.

Only her mirror remained in the house,

Set deep with the years in the silver frame.

And I, her pale granddaughter who doesn't resemble her,

Look into it today as if into

A lake that hides its treasures

Underneath the water.

Deep deep, behind my visage,

I see a young woman

Pink-cheeked, smiling.

And a kerchief on her head.

She's winding a long earring into her earlobe, threading it

Through the small hole in the tender flesh

Of the ear.

Deep deep, behind my visage, beam

The clear golden flecks of her eyes.

And the mirror passes on the family tradition:

That she was very beautiful.

Apples like these, my mother says,

Grandfather would pick in his garden during Elul.

Apples like these, my mother says,

Didn't even grow in the provincial governor's garden.

At eighty-two, my mother says,

He pruned by himself the branches of his apple trees.

At the top of the ladder, my mother says,

Standing tall, and powerful, amid the topmost leaves.

Apples like these, my mother says. . .

And I slowly close my eyes

And see the garden planted by his hands,

And a broad white beard, all majesty,

Darting and shining amid the green of the leaves.

Apples like these—