Mothers Day Sort of (Part 2)

Anna Sorocer, my mother’s mother,  was born in a small town in Rumania

and when she was a girl she met a Handsome Man in a bank

line and she married him although in retrospect she said

it might have been a mistake but she married him and in a long story

that is a different poem she found herself 18, with a baby daughter,

in Grand Forks, North Dakota and you can only imagine that.

She had three more children (my mother was number three).

In her thirties she became a widow. Her oldest, Dolly,

had long legs and ran away to marry a tennis

player.  This was not in the script.  Alex, the second child,  only boy,

was treated like the only boy. An adventuresome

spirit (he owned  nightclubs for a while in Montana) and very beautiful

clothing.  My mother was the most social of them all and after she died

we found a box of engagement rings from before she married my father.

Ruthie was the baby.  She got all A’s and had a beautiful smile. Years later

when my grandmother moved to Beverly Hills with Alex, she wrote letters

each week and her letters always started with the weather.  Because they were

in California the weather was perfect more or less.  Before she ended the

letter with love, she wrote Always Remember, Life is a Dream.

 

Esther Cohen
Let me tell you why I'm here, and why I hope you'll join me. I am here to poem, to play with words, to tell stories when I can, and to ask you for yours. Words are what I love, how I see, and what I say. Words are how I know my life, and how I find my friends. I'm here to ask you to join me. Right here. To send me your stories, and your poems. And to read mine when you can.

5 Comments

  1. when you wrote rumania, i realized that you’re a gypsy in ny city dressed up as a poet.

    let me know what you think about that as an email, if you’re moved to do so.

    thanks!

    hugs!

  2. So how did you end up in the Naugatuck River Valley? Once in Costa Rica it was flooding and all we could do was walk up this big hill. At the top was another small resort and some guy who was running it said “Hey, you sound like a valley girl” after I said hello and asked for a phone. No one had ever recognized my Connecticut twang before, and no one ever called me a ‘valley girl’ before or since.
    Love getting your poems.

  3. This story is so real, it makes me want to cry, although I’m not sure why. It is the life of a whole family in one paragraph. Keep writing!

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