by Seth Rosenbloom
They descend the steps of the chartered coach, some in polyester blends. Uncle Ruby emerges first, squints because he forgot his sunglasses. Pauses for Aunt Sylvia who is spry and pink with no trace of the cartons of Benson & Hedges that charred her to a wisp.
There’s no time for real conversation. I must bring out the appetizers. The neighbor’s daughter helps serve, and the tattoo on her arm causes a stir. Cousin Sheldon can’t resist tracing the letters זֹהַר zohar, radiance, with his thumb. He sees her smile, then she moves on with the mini quiches. I overhear nu? such a thing on her arm. Sheldon snaps enough! She’s an angel.
Everyone is polite, but the dead prefer to talk amongst themselves. I see my father at the edge of the crowd, young and trim. He smiles, then looks up at the red cedars that spire above our assembly. The blue sky, its endless chant.
Dinner is called and the guests take their seats at the table on the lawn. When I place her entrée, my great aunt Chaya rests her hand over mine. She surveys the faces one by one. I see the faint numbers etched across her veins.
At the far end of the table, my father brings his fork to his mouth. Water glasses clink against the bread plates. And the dead grow silent as they eat.
Seth Rosenbloom is a poet and a consultant to companies on leadership. His poems have recently appeared in Poetry Northwest, Tupelo Quarterly, Orange Blossom Review and other publications. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and been a finalist for the Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Prize. Seth was born in Washington, D.C. and he lives in Seattle.
Emerge Literary Journal 