Yaffa

 Yaffa

Avigayil F


In the softest shades of black and grey  

The little girl rests in her father’s arms

Astride the left breast of his charcoal-colored suit

Checkered dress and mary-janes rounding

Small toes

Which swing in the air

Her long, wispy hair disappears into his cropped tuft

Slender arms reach out

From white-capped sleeves

One small hand wrapped around his neck

The other folded in his firm grip

Square jaw and rounded chin

Gaze solemnly into the camera

As two rows of trees converge in the distance

On the open road

 

Their matching,

Round, protruding ears

Cannot hear the marching boot-steps

Which will trample their pastoral quietude

 

I wonder if his wife snapped the photo

Tzipporah

And if her voice chirped like the bird she was named for

As she called, “Moshe, Yaffa! Turn around and look at the camera!”

And if she ever thought about that airy openness

And the way the trees fanned out behind them

As they huddled together in darkness

Or when they again blinked sunlight

On the day her lifeless wings fell across the little girl

In the small attic room

Of the house they once called home

 

He is not dressed yet, in his tailored suit

For the cutting winds of Siberia

His deep sunk eyes not yet diminished

By civilian life in Israel, of all things

The creases in his cheeks and the thinness of his lips

Hint to harsher times

Though he will yet sing at his granddaughter’s wedding

And less than a week later

His heart will cease to beat forever

 

And as she perches there

With a hint of an impudent smile

Behind half-closed eyes

And the sunlight on her flyaway strands

She cannot know

That after she forgets her daughter’s name

The last word she remembers will be her own

Yaffa


Originally written in 2016


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