If not for the letter you sent me
then, half a century ago
in my rebellious years,
I’d never have known
your motherhood.
AND I DIDN’T OPEN IT.

Didn’t read it, thinking you strange, odd,
sunk in yourself and holes dug
for your loved ones. You raised me unsmiling,
with neither hug nor caress. Your lips arched
by no kiss. There, but absent.

If not for that letter, whose folds
stayed closed, I’d never have known
what strengths you choked in yourself.
AND I DIDN’T FEEL IT.

As if after that devastating rupture
all you might caress was the never erected
tombstone on the ashes of your family
and to smile was to betray, to love was to deceive
and no kiss might be released from your tight lips.
AND I DIDN’T KNOW.

Now, having opened the folds of your letter,
I haven’t got you to console and be consoled.
The letter reveals you
as you were in your aching heart
where I the rebel only added anxiety.
On the page in front of me, in clear, beautiful
writing in a language my children don’t know,
just as they will never know you,
you support, encourage, strengthen and counsel me.
AND I DIDN’T READ.

Now, mature at last, I understand
you could not do otherwise, afraid
I’d inherit the same curse.
 

Translated by Riva Rubin