My mother was born sad.
The tender arms
that embraced her in infancy
were engraved with a sorrow
she would carry
for the rest of her life.
An only child
of holocaust survivors,
she learned the nature of suffering
before she could tie her shoes
or even count to ten.
Even at six,
she stares out of photographs
solemnly, her eyes full
with a terrible understanding.
She is nearly indistinguishable
from the placid-faced dolls
she clutches, mute companions
who share her silence.
In later photographs
She smiles carefully,
her mouth flawlessly painted
for the cameras’ probing eye.
She smiles
trying to reassure the world
that time heals all wounds,
that sorrow cannot be passed
from parent to child
like some nameless disease,
flawed DNA
or a birth defect.
But her eyes
betray her every time.
The sadness she holds there
is so ancient
that only the prophets,
their own eyes
heavy-laden with anguish,
would understand.
My mother was born sad.
But when she laughs,
It’s like a crack in the door
as though the sky has opened,
and God – who carries it all
and says nothing – sighs
so deeply even she can hear it.
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