September

POEMOGRAPHY | 2023

Poems by R.M. Usatinsky

pōəˈmäɡrəfē, noun: form or process of writing and representing poetry

01SEP23 | DOG DREAMS (For S, D, S & M)

I know quite a few people

who have recently acquired

dogs, and this has led to my

having quite a few chats on

the subject; they're mostly

about puppies and training

and how they came up with

their names (one named after

a beloved character from Jungle

Book (Baloo) and another pup

named after a favorite rock star

(Bowie); and all this dog talk

has served to stir up memories

about my dogs, all long departed;

I loved them––all four of them––

but was an appallingly poor master,

impatient, dogged (pun intended),

easily annoyed and more often than

not, excessive in my approach to

discipline; I look back on those

times with bittersweet recollections

knowing now I was ill-suited for

the task of living with and caring

for creatures as lovely and loving

as these four precious animals were;

and I hope wherever they are they

can find it in their hearts to forgive

me and to remember the good times

and the moments of tenderness and

companionship we shared; I've been

having dreams about dogs these past

few nights, waking from visions of

having seen my own dogs in these

ever so realistic nighttime illusions,

so vivid and so real that I don't even

doubt their veracity and wake up

feeling both elated and doleful from

the experience; and to you, my dearest

of all, when you died in my arms, you

took a piece of me with you that day

02SEP23 | WHAT I LEARNED TODAY

I learned a few lessons today;

about myself, about life and love

and religion and happiness and

other things that really matter;

I learned that by going to shul this

morning didn't make me religious

or observant or pious or even a Jew;

what it did was enhance my journey

of enlightenment and fulfilled my

desire to feel part of a community;

something bigger than me, a small

part of a larger essence; and maybe

my modest Oleh's prayer didn't move

Hashem, but it moved me; perhaps my

daughter's presence at shul today won't

have an impact on her spiritual growth,

but our bond grew and was strengthened

not by dogma or decree, but by meeting on

a common plane where our understanding

of each other came closer than it ever has;

I learned that I am entitled to be happy, and

I discovered that it's the little things that bring

the greatest joy; and I learned that as time goes

by, my life isn't fading away, but getting brighter

03SEP23 | GHOSTS

It's not something I've given

much thought to or spend any

considerable amount of time

dwelling over; but there was

this one instance, some years

ago, a few weeks after my

grandfather passed away; I

was in the bathroom in my

home in Valencia, brushing

my teeth, combing my hair

and starting off my day when

I was suddenly overcome by

the smell of my grandfather;

the familiar scents of baby

powder and aftershave lotion;

I stood there frozen, captivated

by the intense energy enveloping

me; and yes, I was scared, if only

momentarily, but soon came to feel

at ease in the presence of his warmth

04SEP23 | UNWANTED

It never occurred to me how

unwanted I've become, a fact

that was pointed out to me

today; I nodded my head in

agreement and replied, yes,

unwanted, but not unneeded;

and not only am I unwanted,

it appears that I am equally

unnoticed and unimportant

in the grand scheme of things;

everyone knew I had a doctor

appointment this morning, yet

no one bothered to ask how it

went and they will be equally

as unfazed to find out that I'll

be having a lung function test

at the hospital come Thursday;

so, it's come to pass, like an old

tattered armchair, an unwanted

relic but still somewhat utilitarian

05SEP23 | SPLATTER

One on the window in front

of my desk; the other on the

wall next to the balcony door;

the former a translucent mess

streaked in an elongated swath,

the latter, two distinct blotches

of wings, innards and filth; I am

a pacifist for the most part, I stay

clear of violence and acts of rage;

but our village has been overrun

with flies these past few days and

my patience had worn as thin as it

could go; so, I grabbed a magazine

and rolled it tight, sat down at the

table to eat breakfast and no sooner

had I made myself comfortable and

taken my first bite of toasted spelt

and sourdough bread, the tag team

began buzzing close by; I stood and

firmly took matters into my own hands

06SEP23 | ACTS OF KINDNESS

I must have really been something

special in your eyes; why, to have

so many loving acts of kindness

bestowed upon me; you waited up

late when I waited tables during my

college days; and with every panic

attack or bout of anxiety you held

my hand, held me close and told me

everything would be alright; during

my frequent bouts of gastroenteritis

during those first few summers in

Valencia, you would sit on the side

of the bathtub or on the little stool

caressing my legs and talking me

through the unbearable cramps as

you endured what had to have been

a most godawful stench and the din

of my moaning and blenching with

every spasm; but that was the kind of

person you were; the one that got away

07SEP23 | DEJECTION

I have to admit that I feel pretty good;

however, my body seems to be taking

quite a different view on things; today

I underwent a pulmonary function test,

and as I sat in the cramped glass booth

with my nose clipped closed, my mouth

entertained a soft, blue molded rubbery

device attached to a high-tech-looking

apparatus; so, I huffed and I puffed and

I blew nobody's house down; I was also

weighed (to my utter dismay) prior to the

procedure to discover (with clothes on) I

weigh more today than I ever have in all

my sixty years; more somber still, I am

the shortest I have been in all of my adult

life (neither of those numbers will I post

here or anywhere); but there's more to me

that's been shrinking and growing over the

past few years (trust me, you don't want to

hear the details); utterly and totally dejected

08SEP23 | TOY BUS

I was on the way home with my

daughter the other day and we

got off the tram one stop early to

pick up a few things in the village

before heading home; as it was a

Wednesday, we came across the

antique and curiosa market stalls

that sell antiques, vintage items and

bric-a-brac each and every Wednesday

from May to October; walking by the

first table, I noticed a small wooden bus,

nondescript, unpainted and with wooden

wheels that spin and cut-out windows and

two doors (one at the front, one at the back);

there is a faded inscription burned into the

wood on the bottom of the bus that says

Made in Finland, alongside a small circular

logo with what appears to be the face of a

smiling, chubby-faced child and the word

Jukka, which my expert Googling prowess

suggests is the name of a Finnish toy maker

founded by the Jussila family in 1923; and

this is where the story takes an interesting turn;

not only did I buy the wooden bus, I insisted on

haggling over the price with the 70-something

Dutchman manning the stand; he asked for three

euros for the toy bus and I demanded I wouldn't

settle for less than five; of course he looked at me

like I was crazy, but thanked me as he took the

five euro note from my hand, folding it in half

and putting it into his trouser pocket while scolding

his fellow vendor in the adjoining stand for singing

the same song over and over; back to 1923...this was

the year my maternal grandmother, her parents and

younger brother arrived at Ellis Island from Cherbourg,

France after their sojourn in Poland after fleeing the

unrest in their home in the Russian Empire in modern-

day Ukraine; even more significant is the number 23;

that is the bus line that Adam Driver drives in the 2016

film Paterson, written and directed by Jim Jarmusch,

the film whose storyline features prominently in the

one-man musical I'm currently working on; and, just

as curious, the 23 bus is the line that runs through our

Dutch neighborhood; now, over the course of my life,

I have kept a mere few good luck charms: my first

stuffed animal––a little blue dog with a hard plastic

face––called Lucky; a few baby teeth from each of

my five children and, perhaps the most unique, a

fingernail clipping-sized fluffy taken off of the

security blanket carried by a then very young

little girl to whom I would deliver books during

her long stays at Children's Memorial Hospital in

Chicago, where I worked as the children's librarian;

the girl's mother came down to the library one day

and said her daughter would like to see me; upon

walking into her room on March 8th 1995, the

girl picked a piece of fluff from the blanket and

put it into my hand, her mother saying that only

the most special and trusted people would be

given fluffies; I have carried that fluffy in my

wallet since that day more than 28 years ago

and have left instructions to be buried with it

when I pass from this life; and now I have a

new good luck charm, an old wooden bus some

other child surely played with and enjoyed decades

ago; today, it will serve as my inspiration and a

constant reminder of how important it is for me to

continue with my project and see it come to fruition

09SEP23 | WHAT A MESS

It started with the bird

who felt it necessary to

shit on my freshly cleaned

and pressed beige linen suit;

but now that I think about it,

it started hours before when the

bus driver felt it necessary to blare

his bluetooth speaker (at 70 decibels)

while honking his horn and shouting at

cyclists out the window ("red is red, ay!");

then there was the mess I made at shul when

I locked myself in the bathroom to try and wash

the bird shit off of my suit, which was, to my surprise,

fairly successful; as the late summer heatwave rages

on, I was glad to hang my suit jacket up to dry as

the combination of the jacket and tallis would

have been extremely warm and uncomfortable; so,

the jacket dried to something close to clean and

I made my way home to make some lunch, but

as I opened the fridge, half a watermelon fell

out and splattered all over the kitchen floor;

even after cleaning it and spraying it and

wiping it, the floor is still a sticky mess;

so, you'll forgive me if I take leave

from this space as I must now

tend to filling a bucket and

properly mopping the floor

before retiring to my nap

09SEP23 | PATERSON

I suppose you could say it's a tad unusual,

my wanting to see "Paterson" on the big

screen after the film's been lulling me to

sleep for the past two years (don't ask);

but seeing how I'd never seen it except

on my computer, phone or iPad––and

that the arthouse cinema was featuring

the films of Jim Jarmusch this month––

I couldn't pass on the opportunity to see

what is fast becoming my favorite film

of all time from the stalls as opposed to

desktop screens and handheld devices;

it was hard for me to sit through the film

controlling my impulses to speak every

line of Jim's dialogue; then there was

the young, demure, copper-skinned, long,

black-haired woman sitting beside me in

seat two of theater three's sixth row; and

how could I not have thought that her

very presence, youth, beauty and the

fact that she was alone (and young and

beautiful) and sitting beside me on the

only day this particular film would be

screened; I mean, how much more of

a twist of fate could the universe have

possibly hurled my/our way; and if

synchronicity wasn't in the air, I fear I

may never believe in providence again;

and I sat there absorbed in this trinity of

mind-bending concentration––the film,

the young woman, the Cubs game which

I clandestinely checked in on every so

often on my phone or watch––losing

myself in unanswerable questions (will

the Cubs lose their third game in a row?

will I actually build up the courage to

speak to the young woman? will I ever

finish my one-man musical? will I ever

have lunch with Adam Driver at the 2nd

Avenue Deli while giving him notes on

that morning's rehearsal before we head

back to the Orpheum for the afternoon

session?); yes, I live mostly in a world of

my own invention, constant daydreams

and fantasies of grandeur and impossible

scenarios that play out in my head; but

what would life be without these fanciful

notions and hope of dreams coming true

11SEP23 | PERFECT, LIKE YOU

It must be nice, being so perfect, perfect

in the way you certainly imagine you are;

and perfect in ways that if others fail to

meet your perception of perfect, they are

shunned and labelled and left aside to

fend for themselves because you don't

have the heart, soul or empathy to deal

with them; to deal with people like us;

now, I realize that in my case, I mean

nothing to you, but your daughter is

your very own flesh and blood who

needs her mother unconditionally, who

requires your support, understanding

and empathy, not riling or rebuke; and

you know it triggers her when you speak

English to her, though you insist on doing

it time and time again; it seems there is no

limit to your cruelty, no end to your lack of

sympathy and no way to make you see the

error of your ways and your misguidedness

12SEP23 | BETWEEN THE SHEETS

I've missed you; how long has it been

since I last felt your cool smoothness

caressing me to sleep? your wavy folds

and sleek layers covering my warm skin;

it's been years and only now can I recall

it was antique linen, an heirloom passed

down to Virginia, daintily embroidered

at the borders and a perfect fusion of

softness and stiff; but in my new life

it was the duvet that came into play;

this ancient Chinese invention with its

puffy sections in yellowing white which

one had to stuff inside of its protective

sack (if you were skilled and patient

enough); and while its weight provided

warmth and soothing calm, achieving any

semblance of aesthetic dignity is simply

too challenging; so, today, I will go forth

and seek out what I most desire; a white,

cotton top sheet to cover my body with

13SEP23 | CONFESSIONAL (FOR D.A.C.)

I opened up, said what I needed to say;

all very matter-of-factly, direct, to the

point; it's not like we were strangers or

anything, we've known each other for

thirty-five years (really? that long??);

but our relationship for all these past

years has been a mainly transient one,

a visit here, a visit there; some video

chats and a few dozen emails (you

used to send a Christmas letter by

post every year with little handmade

drawings by your daughters); and I

have always admired you, from near

and far; when you stood at the front

of my History of Dramatic Literature

course during my first two years at

school; when we walked down the

sunny streets of Geneva and Leiden

and Delft, having coffee and lunch

and catching up on work and family

and the pot-pourri of projects we have

each been engaged with over the years,

tomatoes and that Italian ladyfriend, my

books and a few short stories and now

this meshugaas with my one-man show;

and today's chat was an important one,

one in which I realized, or should I say

confirmed, what an important role you

have played in my life, a role I hope to

see you in for years to come; and I also

hope to one day, in some meaningful way,

repay your generosity and benevolence

14SEP23 | A LOVELESS LIFE

I haven't always lived a loveless life;

in fact, I've always thought of myself

as an affectionate sort of person, one

who hugs, kisses, holds hands and who

says I love you when the moment calls;

but I've fallen into hard emotional times,

ended up in a loveless relationship with

someone whose concept of love is mostly

far removed from my own; a cold often

compassionless person who wears the

few feelings she has on the sleeve of a

vintage blouson that lives on a wooden

hanger stuffed at the back of a wardrobe;

I grew up in a loving family, expressive,

affectionate and warm, and I have tried

to pass this legacy of love onto my own

children, but those efforts are constantly

thwarted by the (proverbial) elephant in

the room; so, I try my best at every turn

to let my children know they are loved

15SEP23 | WHEN YOU KNOW (YOU KNOW)

There was an instant connection;

from the first words that flowed

over the telephone line that were

processed by my brain, I knew you

were the one, the one I knew would

come into my life when I least expected

it; the one who would turn night to day,

storm clouds into blue skies and purge

every ounce of sadness from my being;

and that first conversation was magical,

feeling, for the first time in a long time,

that I was understood, appreciated and

made to feel special; but I wonder what

you might have been feeling in those brief

few moments; you laughed and expressed

wonder and seemed curious to know more;

but I simply marvelled in the moment because

when you know, you know...and I knew, knew

this was the start of something big, something

that would last until I took my life's final breath

16SEP23 | THE LITTLE THINGS

It was Friday night; I was sat there

at the bus stop wearing my yontif

clothes as I had just come from shul

after a very nice Rosh Hashanah meal;

the old couple at the bus stop looked

me over and the man said, shana tovah,

(to my surprise and delight); he began

speaking to me in a Dutch I was actually

able to understand; you've just come from

the synagogue, he continued, your shoes

gave you away; it turned out the man and

his wife were Jewish, he, from The Hague,

she, born and raised in Haifa; they lived in

Israel for many years where he was a teacher

of electrical engineering (or something along

those lines); he said he had his bar mitzvah at

the old synagogue on the Wagenstraat that is

now a mosque; we shared the bus ride talking

about our lives past and present and when I

alighted at my stop, I felt a sense of gladness

17SEP23 | ACCEPTANCE

The sooner I adopt, execute and

permanently put into effect the

practice of acceptance, the better

and happier my life will be; but

that exercise is easier in theory

than actually getting down to

the difficult work of setting it

into motion; there will need to

be a lot introspection and long,

deep looks into the mirror; I will

have to come to terms with the

reality of my age and accept the

fact that, while my brain insists

I am 15, my true age is the one

that outwardly encounters people

and the everyday challenges I face;

and it won't be easy to accept the fact

that I am past my prime, well beyond

middle age and nearing the end of my

journey; I will need to take much more

responsibility for my thoughts, deeds

and actions, understand that I might be

the creepy older man who shouldn't be

talking to younger women; that patting

a young boy on the head may be not be

appreciated or seem as innocent as I

intended it to be; I need to accept that

my aging body has its limitations and

has its ways of communicating those

in the most concise and usually painful

ways; that my protruding belly, crooked

frame and badly-fitting clothes are all

consequences of a genetic predisposition

that, as a child, went undetected therefore

untreated; but I also need to come to accept

that I am worthy of more than I think I am;

that I do have something to offer, that my

music, writing, stories, experiences, love

and dreams are all gifts waiting to flow into

the lives of those who deserve them most;

but most of all, I have to come to accept

that my children are going to break my

heart until there is no longer a beating

heart to break; that the world in which

they are being raised is a soulless one,

lacking compassion and the spirit of

union, friendship and family; and the

tears I shed will be all that remains of

my trials; puddles of despair and all the

longing, disillusionment and sadness I

have had to endure in this life; to accept

less would simply devalue my humanity

18SEP23 | STILL WAITING

The last thing you told me

minutes before we stood in

front of the judge who would

validate our divorce was how

one day I would thank you; well,

here we are, what, fifteen, sixteen

years on after that harrowing day

and I'm still waiting to thank you;

thing is, I have nothing to thank

you for; I know what you're going

to say, three beautiful daughters,

bla, bla, bla...but the truth of the

matter is I'm really no better off

since that day standing nervously

waiting for our turn to sign papers

and go our separate ways; years later,

I still regret not having fought for us,

for the love we shared and the family

we made; I have nothing to be thankful

for as the loss I suffered is immeasurable

19SEP23 | ATONEMENT

As the day of reckoning fast

approaches, I know what the

right thing to do is; but I don't

think I'll be able to take those

steps, those few short steps that

lead to redemption; no matter

how hard I try to pry open my

heart, there seems to be no way

to loosen the grip, to unbind the

ties and begin the slow process

of forgiveness and healing; and

I've had this sense of foreboding

as the day draws near when the

book of life will be sealed; there

is the feeling that when the gates

close, I will not be on the right

side of the portal; but I no longer

fear the inevitable (nor will I be

overly enthusiastic to welcome it);

so I will await the final judgement

20SEP23 | DECAY

It’s what happens to discarded things;

they begin to decay, rot from the inside

out, lose their luster and life force; the

human body is a time bomb, heartbeats

ticking away mortality until death like

a black hole swallows our existence in

seconds of desperation and horror; and

the mind deteriorates as well, the slow

waning of memories that can no longer

be recalled; names, places and faces that

blur and become unrecognizable; our gait

falters, we become unbalanced, confused

and incoherent; we talk to ourselves as

we often have no one else to talk to or

anyone who will listen to the gibberish

we speak; we are so alone in our decay

that it is often unbearable to fathom how

what was once so alive and filled with

ambition and desire can be abandoned

and left to wither away like a fallen leaf

21SEP23 | A LOSS OF FAITH

I suppose you could say I've lost my

faith in humanity; I loathe going out

in public as what I observe so deeply

disgusts me; we've truly entered into

the end times, the zombie apocalypse

is real and it is among us, there, in our

everyday lives; people, half alive, half

dead in a state of stupefaction, walking

around numb, dumb, unaware of what

they're doing, simply going through the

motions of existence in a stupor without

any regard for anything, not themselves,

not others, not their surroundings or the

immense beauty of the world that exists

right in front of their own eyes, trudging

through life, their faces pasted to screens

while their minds are blasted with earbud

clatter, mouths reeking of stale smoke and

fast food, shoes propped up on the worn out

tram seats as they sit in their own noxious rot

22SEP23 | JIM & MAURY

It was fifty years ago this week since we lost

Jim and Maury when their Beechcraft E18S

crashed during takeoff from that small-town

airport in northwest Louisiana; they had just

given a concert on a university campus and

were on their way to play another show at

another college in Texas when the airplane

crashed into a tree killing all six passengers

on board; Jim and Maury were at the top of

their game, they had chart-topping songs and

hit records––even a greatest hits album after

only releasing a handful of records; but it's

the songs Operator and Time in a Bottle that

I best remember Jim Croce by, two of what I

consider to be of the best songs ever written;

and I watch old YouTube videos of these two

soft-spoken men, picking and strumming and

harmonizing angelically with music and lyrics

that touch the soul and speak to me in so many

ways that only my tears seem to comprehend

23SEP23 | THE MOURNING TABLE

It's always nice to be an invited guest at the

rabbi's family dinner table after Friday night

services; but tonight's dinner was profoundly

different; the rebbetzin's father passed away

last week just before the start of the Jewish

High Holidays and only hours after seeing

a photo of his newest grandson, born hours

earlier on that very same day to his youngest

daughter in Manchester, England; during the

meal, the rebbetzin was visibly crestfallen,

moments when it was obvious her thoughts

had turned to her father that, in turn, brought

tears to her eyes which she only faintly tried to

hide; but it was her husband and daughters and

their inward reactions to witnessing the pain

the rebbetzin must have been feeling that I so

intensely observed; their gaze of concern was

seemingly all it took to bring comfort and relief;

no words or touch, just the power of the bond

between those who genuinely love one another

24SEP23 | SPIRITUALITY

Spirituality is dead (long live spirituality);

god is an afterthought only brought causally

into conversation in the polarity of whether

one believes or does not believe, if religion

is good or bad, if there is a heaven or a hell;

but we rarely speak (or act) of good deeds;

organized religion has become as ordinary

as sports, where teams are supported; star

athletes lifted to priestly heights in society;

what religion did do, has done over the course

of human history, is slaughter masses of innocent

people for believing––or not believing––in the

correct righteous path; churches and shrines

built with opulence and little regard for those

whose lives and livelihoods were sacrificed

that these garish edifices be erected; and that

our families are broken and our children wander

aimlessly in the streets of our dilapidated cities

speaks of the loss of humanity that has all but

left us spiritually deprived and of void of purpose

25SEP23 | DAYS OF AWE

The awkwardness of trying to fit in,

wearing white sneakers with a navy

blue pinstripe suit and a clean white,

freshly-ironed button-down collar shirt

(today's is slightly too big and last night's

much too tight); and everything just feels

uncomfortable, but perhaps that is simply

part of what Yom Kippur is supposed to be

about, stepping just far enough outside of

one's comfort zone to endure the discomfort;

remaining in a state of heightened awareness

to the extent in which the experience becomes

palpable; and as my mouth goes dry from thirst,

my stomach gurgling for want of food and the

calf muscles at the back of my legs tightening

and cramping from the constant standing and

sitting and sitting and standing, I'm reminded

that these ten days of awe and atonement have

less to do with my asking God for forgiveness

than they do of asking myself for forgiveness

26SEP23 | THE BOOK OF LIFE

During yesterday's pause from Yom Kippur

services, I attended a doctor's visit I had on

the books for a few weeks, deciding it was

too important to re-schedule; this was to

follow-up to get the results of the x-rays I

had taken as my primary care physician who,

for the sake of conversation, is married to a

secular Israeli Jew, wanted to make sure there

were no serious issues with my lungs, as the

pulmonary function test I had recently during

a bout of what she called "summer flu" came

back with a less-than-desired result; I arrived

for my appointment but waited an excruciating

45-minutes until my doctor appeared, apologizing

for the long wait; I had spent the last ten days

agonizing over the results, dreading, as I do, the

worst of possible outcomes; and as is usually the

case, all of my worrying was for naught as my

lungs showed no anomalies and my heart was its

normal size and in its right place (concerns from

a misdiagnosis almost 20 years ago); I sat there in

the doctor's office, eyes welled up with tears in

sheer jubilation at the discovery that I wasn't going

to die, not for anything related to my lungs at least;

and when I returned to shul later that afternoon for

Mincha and Ne'ila, the concluding service on Yom

Kippur, it was with a sense of relief, believing that

my name would surely be inscribed in the book of life

27SEP23 | KEEP SMOKING

I know it's an addiction,

an illness and unwellness

of the mind, but they keep

on smoking; they keep on

lighting up and sucking in

and blowing out and looking

desperately ridiculous in their

smokey pantomime; and they

keep smoking, despite their

coughing fits and phlegm, the

few spots the x-rays picked up

on their lungs and the general

malaise and fatigue and stench

they battle with; but they've been

slaves to the industry since they

were teens, thought it was cool,

made them feel like adults; most,

I imagine, simply emulating their

parents or addicted by proxy from

living their childhoods in the toxic

clouds their parents puffed around

the house in and in the car (with the

window rolled down barely a crack);

and now they're all dying and killing us

28SEP23 | PURE ELATION

It's my brain's way of getting a

quick dopamine fix; sitting at

the piano and playing the songs

for the new musical I've been

writing for the past 38 years;

but today, my Ukrainian pianist

and arranger has come by with

another completed song, one of

the three original compositions

I first wrote in August 1985 in

Chicago, as I sat broken-hearted

at my mother's 1947 Wurlitzer

spinet just having hung up the

phone with my ex-girlfriend;

but today's pure elation was

far removed from the heartache

of years gone by and as I sung

the song and listened to the words

and felt the emotion of the music,

my spirits were lifted higher than

they'd been lifted in a long time;

and what for decades has seemed

like an unreachable goal, suddenly

became as close as my own voice

29SEP23 | JULIE'S BOY

I never knew Julie's boy;

never met my step-sister's

first born, though there may

have been a brief encounter

many years ago when he was

just a baby visiting from out

west; I knew he had a rough

childhood; broken home, drugs

and alcohol, I think he may have

even fathered a child; I caught

glimpses of him on his and his

mother's Facebook page over

the years; he was tall, handsome

and heavily tattooed, looked like

he hung out with the wrong crowd;

he did time, did rehab, moved from

job to job; all I know about the end

was that his mom and uncle picked

him up from the jailhouse and in a

matter of hours he was gone forever

30SEP23 | MAPLEWOOD

It seems like a lifetime ago,

probably because it was; I

lived the first years of my

life in a two-bedroom flat

with my mom, grandparents

and great-grandfather on a

block of mostly three-story

buildings; Florence Hart was

our landlady, her baldheaded

sons, Wally and Harvey would

visit often with their children

who became my occasional

playmates, allowing me to use

their little blue plastic wading

pool their grandmother stored

under the back stairs; Kurt and

Delores Hoffman lived on the

second floor with their two

daughters, Karen and Marcia;

Kurt once gave me a little chair

upholstered in red plastic that I

kept for years; he was an alcoholic

who, after his wife divorced him,

moved to San Francisco where he

became a homosexual; Mrs. Hart

had a boarder, Pauline, a hefty

woman with soft peroxide blonde

curls; she would babysit me when

my mother went back to work as

a checker at Jewel and later moved

to Florida; Lawrence and Marie

Zanen lived next door, their third-

floor apartment directly level with

ours; I would watch the Zanens from

the bedroom I shared with my great-

grandfather as they walked through

their dining room traversing their

home; they had two sons, Jerry and

Larry, the former, a divorcé whose

young son drown at the High Ridge

YMCA in the late 50s or early 60s;

on the other side lived the Haleys and

O'Briens, next to them was Mr. Schick,

who always wore the same dark uniform

(my colorblind recollection can only say

it was either brown or dark green); he

was a repairman who fixed our TV, which

seemed to need repairing quite often; David

Mason lived with his mother on the corner

of Maplewood and Thorndale and, while a

couple years older than me, was always kind

and invited me to his house where his mother

would serve cookies and milk; there was

Lucky, the little Irish kid at the end of the

block who socked me in the eye one day,

leaving it black and blue for weeks; Jodi

gave me my first kiss outside of the front

door as we sat on the stairs one day in

the same place my dad would kiss my mom

goodnight when he dropped her off after

their dates at The Captain's Table on Clark;

and my goldfish and turtles are, presumably,

still buried in the backyard, where my zayde

would sit on a mesh-strapped yard chair in

shorts, a white dago tee and black socks and

sandals as he read the Jewish Daily Forward;

this was my life until I was seven when my

mother remarried and my life was born anew

at the red-brick courtyard building on Rosemont;

but those years on Maplewood have remained

close to me in my recollection and I look back

on those times with fondness and happy thoughts