“Saudade,” “How the Time Goes,” and “Komorebi”

One last trip

on the New Lots Line

that trundles up

from its tunnel

just as the Brooklyn neighborhoods

turn to Brownsville,

turn to near ruin.

The train takes the 90 degree

curve on 98^th Street—

where my uncle

and aunt once lived,

and where the train’s screech might

wake the dead

or make you wish

you were,

and deposits me

at the Saratoga Avenue Station.

It’s been more

than 50 years

since I last rode this train

and stepped off at this station.

Slowly, I move down the steps

where my friend Artie

was knifed to death,

and where my mother was held up

twice. I’m here to walk.

Take in what my ancient

senses will allow.

It’s my “not much of a victory tour.”

I look at everything.

Smell, hear everything.

I move at little more than

a geriatric’s pace now.

Remember how I strode these streets

like I owned them?

And in a way,

I suppose I did.

I pass the old elementary school,

the first tenement I lived in—

I bet the people still sleep on the fire escape.

The street names have changed—

as have the people

who live in these crumbling buildings,

worse for 50 more years of wear.

Yet things are much the same—

working people with families

and kids playing stickball

in the schoolyard.

Here is where I left my childhood—

who knew it was so easy to lose?

Wearier but no wiser,

I Uber back to my hotel.

I buy 6 Yahrzeit candles

in glass jars on sale for 15 bucks.

They are supposed to burn

for 24 hours,

but they never do—

some longer,

some shorter,

like the lives we all live.

I light 5 tonight—

and put one away

for what comes next,

as it must.

I arrange them in age

order on the mantel.

It’s quite the family gathering,

though one or two could not stand

the others.

It reminds me of holiday gatherings—

how could it not?

when we shared brisket

and latkes, and a deep, sweet red,

followed by babka

and pot after pot

of good, strong coffee.

After, we’d play

a take no prisoners

game of penny poker.

Dad always went broke first.

The pennies

piled up by my grandmother.

Family,

the sea I swim in.

I take the path

through the oak grove

as quiet as a Sunday morning.

It’s all uphill,

and I am as drenched

as a child after baptism.

The dappled light

filtered through the leaves

has me stunned—

painted

neither dark nor light,

words fail it.

Is that

the origin

of the holy?