Beads

Saba, your palms

that can never straighten

are perfectly shaped

to hold a cigarette

to open a Coca Loca

to play cards

or to keep your fingers busy

with a string of beads.

Grandfather, you do not pray

What is it that you are counting?

on your balcony, you are looking

out

to see us arriving

to see us leaving

perhaps you are counting

our steps?

Moshe, your wooden beads,

Who gave them to you?

What stories do they hold?

the gentle click as

the beads touch

are a sound that holds

the memory of your love,

our bond.

Our steps - is it them you’re counting?

You see us leaving, you see us arriving, you’re looking out from your balcony

I’ve never seen you pray,

What is it that you’re counting, Moshe?

You keep your fingers busy with a string of beads,

you open a Coca Loca, you inhale the smoke of your cigarette

With your bent palms you play cards,

Shall we play, grandfather?

Our bond, your love, the memory

that sound holds

You gently move the beads, making a sweet clicking sound as they touch.

What stories do they hold? Who gave them to you, Saba?