Poetry-Friends-and-Family

Traveling the interstate routes With no sense of direction Following no road map Traveling only by the lay of the land Going on only because Of the love of the land You and your dad You, a curly-haired toddler Without even the knowledge To put the right shoes on the right feet Listening to Willie Nelson in a trance You Your dad Feeling the love, but not really understanding it Your bottle in one hand The other, clutching the seat belt Anticipating the next fork in the road You, a rosy-cheeked kid Not knowing anything but Willie Nelson’s voice and The indescribable landscape Not knowing That later on in life you wish you would be able to relive That single moment A thousand times Only the hazy memory Sticking to you like the apple juice leaking from the bottle Stuck to your lively little fingers at one time You and your dad On the interstate routes. Katie Ferman, 11Three Lakes, Wisconsin

One day my grandpa gathered me in his arms and said, “Come, sweety, let me tell you something.” And he got a faraway look in his eyes as he told me of life with Hitler in power. He told me of being rounded up and separated from his family when he was still young; to the left, or to the right; to death, or to life. He told of working hard, every day, getting only a crust of bread and a bowl of watery soup, and of lying awake, every night, in fear. He told of the nightmares, the killing, the round-ups, the death. He told of the lice, the typhus, the sickness, the fear. He told of the hatred for a nation, and of praying for only the best. He told of watching his friends and family die, their ashes rising from the chimneys, and not being able to do anything about it. He told of hiking in the winter snow, and the summer heat, shoved by rifle butts to an unknown destination. He told of the Nazis’ defeat, and the Russians’ triumph. He told of the joy of being free, and the sorrow of the knowledge of being the only one to survive. He told of going on, despite the painful memories. And when he finished, he was in tears. And all I could do was hug him. Mushka Bogomilsky, 10 Millburn, New Jersey