My Mother’s Mother died in the spring of her days.
And her daughter did not remember her face.
Her portrait, engraved upon my grandfather’s heart,
was erased from the world of images after his death.
Only her mirror remained in the home, sunken with age into the silver frame.
An d I, her pale granddaughter, who does not resemble her,
Look into it today as into a pool which conceals its treasures beneath the waters.
Very deep behind my face, I see a young woman
pink-cheeked, smiling and a wig on her head.
She puts an elongated earring on her earlobe, threading it
through a tiny hole in the dainty flesh of her ear.
Very deep, behind my face,
the bright goldness of her eyes send out rays,
and the mirror carries on the tradition of the family:
that she was very beautiful.
Leah Goldberg
