The tiles on the walls are pink and they
reflect enticingly the dawn’s joyful arrival
as the white curtains filter the sunlight in.
This feels very much real, despite the jet lag.
I take a look at the face I see in the old mirror;
it’s supposed to me mine and I’m supposed
to be fifty-five years old tomorrow in NYC.
This feels equally unreal under any circumstances.
I’ve had my morning meditation in a big bed,
eyeing the orange winter sunrise behind the windows,
lying straight on my back, my spine a bit curved
due to the half- lotus position of my twisted legs,
in the womb-like warmth under the electric blanket.
Strangely, after leaving my home behind the vastness of an ocean
I arrived at home, another place that welcomes like a home.
Another place where my existence feels totally accepted,
another street address, zip code, and country, even another language
in which I can feel at home, and even find my words with ease.
The light is different: so much brighter during the longer daylight time.
Where I come from it is scarce, softened by the clouds, hibernating.
The Long Island light gives me an injection of energy, it makes me alive.
During my walk the sun shines like in spingtime, forgivingly, tenderly.
The tall marsh grass at riverside bend in the gentle wind soundlessly
We arrive at a hut where an old man serves wine and talks about war.
He points out a young GI walking along a street in a French town and
receiving flowers from a little girl; that’s him frozen seventy years ago.
He tells about the cries of young men whom a bygone war decided to waste;
they had the same word on their dying lips: ”Mom!”, ”Mutti!”, ”Mamma!”
I let the local Merlot linger on my taste buds and feel the sun on my face.
I have never cried for my mom, nor have I ever been dying, so far.
Life’s gigantic unfairness remains a puzzling mystery for me
while I dwell on this moment, in my utter, unearned happiness.
Yet, as I have entered my second half of a century
I have no doubt whatsoever that I will die one day,
whatever that means and entails. Still I know one thing:
I have more than one mother to cry for.
Composed on Jan 3, 2012 for Sheila Blume in Sayville, NY, USA
Recited publicly on Jan 4, 2017 at Café ZamZam in Ekenäs, Finland