July/August 2020

Each time he comes to our house To give me a trumpet lesson, He arrives in a large SUV And tells us his family Hasn’t visited in ages. He drinks an espresso, Spreads pages of music On the stand, And instead of playing, He talks about Sicily. Mount Etna in the distance, His grandfather’s old village, Olives and rosemary . . . The only place He feels at home. Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 13Brookline, Massachusetts

Wet feet on the sand Touching the seaweed. Memories dissolve in the tide, People toss wet seaweed, as if it’s a joke To lose one’s memories. Yet when the seaweed dries in the sand, It forms a grid And returns to life . . . Memory restored. Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 13Brookline, Massachusetts

Walking up stairs where Dostoevsky walked before, Looking through doors where he looked before, Sitting in chairs where he sat before, Mourning his young son Aleksey. Ringing doorbells Dostoevsky rang before, Looking at pages he wrote before, Shadows of him filling the air, As a white night falls on the Baltic shore. Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 13Brookline, Massachusetts