privilege of dying without
To know that their armchairs and
vases would exist, to be used by
Once, I sulked that Savta’s wedding dress from
the photograph wasn’t kept for me.
A child, simply misunderstanding
how things were never left behind
out of spite.
I cherish the photographs now –
threadbare sepia moments of
lives I will never truly know.
Sometimes I put on Aunt Polly’s black velvet cape
and feel held through the generations by its warmth.
And I cried when I hung the Mezuzah on the door of
my first home, knowing I could stay
as long as I chose.