Of Gold Brooches and Yarmulkes

 

 

Eva Kilgore

 

 

It wasn't just the smell of burnt pretzels

mixed with chestnuts and

hog dogs

from

The vendor on 48th Street.

It was the boy with a prayer

shawl

walking behind the man

holding a tray of Movado watches.

It was the woman

discussing

deli.

It was all of the

4 story

walk-ups

and a primal

ancestral

gut grabbing

feeling

that somewhere outside

California

I could connect with great

great

great

aunt Tillie.

Nothing that smacks

of her here in the land

of palm trees

and flip-floppers.

No steam from the subway grate.

No subway grate at all.

The aroma of corned beef

and glow of a candle

coming from a small

window

wafting.

Comforting.

No waves crashing

against the shore.

No waves at all.

It's ok.

Maybe I'll never wash

the sweatshirt

with the burnt pretzel

smell.

A sensory postcard

from

generations

past.

 

 

 

 

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© 2007 Women in Judaism, Inc.



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