"Waldheim Cemetery."
We are in Chicago's Waldheim cemetery.
I am walking with my father.
My nose, my eyes, left, pink, wrinkled, oversize ear,
my whole face is in my armpit.
We are at the stone beneath which lies my father's mother.
There is embedded in it a pearl-shaped portrait.
I do not know this woman.
I never saw her.
I am enraged, indignant.
I clench my fist.
I would like to strike her.
My father weeps.
He is Russian.
He weeps with conviction, sincerity, enthusiasm.
I am attentive.
I stand there listening beside him.
After a while, a little bored, but moved,
I decide myself to make the effort.
I have paid strict attention.
I have listened carefully.
Now, I, too, will attempt tears.
They are like song.
They are like flight.
I fail.