“On the Day My Father Died: Hungarian Refugees Bring Food”
Above the voices of grief in our kitchen
I heard a knock at our front door
and found Hungarian refugee neighbors
with my buddy, Tibor, who already knew
some English. They were crying
as they stood with bowls of gulyas
and pastry trays of orahnjaca.
They whispered, “sajnalom, sajnalom”
and Tibor said, “We are sorry
about your father.” Mrs. Tackash
repeated over and over, “jo ember”
and Tibor told me, “She says your father
was a good man.” My mother invited
them in to join our other neighbors
but they just wanted to give us dishes
and plates still warm beneath waxed paper
filled with their savory and sweet
gifts of friendship and condolence
from the homeland they were forced to flee.
They all hugged my mother and me then
stepped down from our porch and
looked like angels beneath the gold
of Albert St. streetlights. Mrs. Hegedus
called up from the sidewalk, “Isten aldjon”
and Tibor said, “It means, “’God bless you’”
and I did my best to answer, “Isten aldjon,”
a Hungarian prayer in our American night.
(Published in Tiferet Journal)