Maatstaf. Jaargang 23

[p. 29]

Milton Kessler Finding Peace

I see that my father
feels smaller and weaker.
He looks at his feet
as he finds our way,
and his hands are fragile
making a point,
the sky too strong
behind his sunglasses.
In fact, everything is too big
on him, his sleeves and pants
and robe. He is as small as my daughter
on her toes when he goes to kiss her.
We walk slower, and I choose
not to go too far
and the argument not so serious
as before or as long.
But when we sit, upstairs,
and his cigar is lit, his authority
hurts me still, wonderful
and never wrong. ‘The old time doctors
were more devoted,’ he says.
And each time now we speak
of cemeteries, the empty
family plot for four.
This week of Rosh Hashana he went
to visit his father's grave and
his tiny mother, Bella. He sat
on one of the stone benches.
‘It was beautiful,’ he said,
‘very peaceful.’ And he admired
the way the name was still so fresh
and perfectly carved: Kessler.
I told him that he was lucky. A poet
could give a man immortality.
And such was his son.
‘In death you find peace, they say.’
Today, on the boardwalk, I sensed
this fright in me.