Tuesday, October 9, 2018

The Lost, by Fran Markover




The usual suspects: socks without mates, lone earrings, wandering keys.
 I lost a Wedgwood china ring. The design: a pearly woman leaning against an anchor.
 Her name was Hope. I had bought it in England to keep me safe crossing any ocean.
 I lost her the day I packed for college.

I lost my father’s medallion, the gold one he pocketed during WWII as he flew over enemy
lines. Inscribed are the 10 Commandments in Hebrew. I wore it to mammograms and
court hearings for my work. I took it to the ER when my 90 year old mother broke her hip.
Found the coin one day at the bottom of a pocketbook. Now, the medallion rests on
velvet by Tante Ruchel’s bracelet.

I lost my first love, a boy I met in 6th grade. Years later, at our 50th reunion, I met his
wife who took a liking to me. We talked, this woman and me, for a long while.
She called me “soul mate.”  So now Annie and I are Facebook buddies. Life surely
becomes complicated when one door slams and an unexpected door swings wide.

I’ve lost words, early sounds of Yiddish, words that spat, that occasionally grumbled their
way home. Words like: bubkis and meshugganah, oy kinehora and tsouris. These are
syllables I yell when English seems too polite. Did I lose myself as words and phrases
vanish?

I’ve lost names. Or can you lose what hasn’t been inherited? Names like Grandpa Morris’
brothers. There were a lot of them and grandfather never could share their stories.
Did he imagine that if he whispered names of the dead, he’d travel back to his lost country,
his lost village? When he strummed his mandolin, I could almost hear a celestial roll call.

I’ve lost possibilities. After my surgery, I could never give birth. I was 31 years old.
The scar across my abdomen formed soft tracks to nowhere. I can accept this fate
until a stranger inquires: Do you have any children?

 I lost a tooth the day I left Spunky the cat at the vet hospital. I thought at 5 years old
 she’d survive. Now there’s a hole in my mouth, unfilled. Like leaving an empty chair
 where dad used to sit or the fissures in my heart when my younger brother died.
 When my tongue enters the gap, I think of Spunky’s smooth fur, how I held her against
 my chest to hear each other’s music. How a rescue cat on my lap can be an anchor.