My brother Sam sent another
story about my father in the army. What
we remember and what we don’t. (Someone
asked a few weeks ago: is every
story a poem?) A man named Hop
was in my father’s unit. Jew and Chinese
they became roommates. Hop
had a big knife that he brought with him
to the army. He used his knife for baking pies
and all through their time together Hop
baked them pies. My father said he’d never
eaten pies as good again.
Esther, just wanted to let you know how I enjoy your poems. They are a daily enjoyment that I always look forward to.
Thanks smooch Dianne. Very grateful for your kind words