Sometimes you can live inside a story without realizing there are large holes in the narrative. Even though my father's last name was Rossini and my grandfather's name was Leichtman, I never thought about that discrepancy until I was in my 20's. I guess i was so indoctrinated by the Catholic dogma of marriage that I never thought that my father's parents could have been divorced and that the man I knew as Granpa Leichtman was not my father's biological father. Here's a poem about him.
a prayer for my grandfather
my mother buttons my white shirt
my grandfather has died tonight
is his wake i walk
quietly into the funeral parlor where everything
whispers the undertaker the family the taffeta
of my cousins' dresses we sit
in a silence that swallows
the light & one
by one rise
to kneel in front of his open coffin
i look for the cigar in his hands or the deck
of cards instead there is a rosary tied
around the fingers this Jew (they whisper he always wanted
to be a Catholic) left
his wife their five
children for my grandmother & her three sons
& in this moment of sorrow i stare
at his dark forehead it reminds me
of the table where Friday nights the family
gathered its wood rubbed deep
with whiskey & smoke & his long
journey from Hungary to this grim
room of flowers & i see
my eye reflected there & lean back
taking my life
from his face i pray
may he have Dutch Masters & nights
of pinochle & Four Roses
may his hands forever
be free
of prayers
