Wednesday, August 15, 2007

A Grandson's Wish

for Alfred Weinstock my dear colleague and brilliant periodontist, who pined for his grandfather’s stories, but was always disappointed not to hear more. He remembers that the Cossacks rode through his village and trampled him down when he was a boy in Poland.

Grandpa tell me again

Tell me about your childhood Grandpa
It’s something I long to have told.
Tell me about your shtetel Grandpa
Tell me now before you’re too old.
Sit down and draw upon your pipe,
Send smoke rings above Shabbes board
Tell me of when the Cossacks came
Trampling through in a hoard.

Grandpa, I love your old stories,
No one could tell them like you,
Not even our Yeshiva Rebbe
Tells stories as real as you do.
Yet every time that I ask you,
You say with a nod and a sigh,
“There’s really not much I can tell you!”
Though I see the tear’s glint in your eye.

Grandpa, I stood by a grave side
A son wore a black coat all torn,
And a widow was decked in a black lace shawl
To hide her face so forlorn.
Then I thought that they’d never hear them
The stories that their grand papa knew,
So Grandpa please tell me your stories
Before this evening is through.

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