a prayer for my grandfather

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