After Shave

aftershave

The car engulfed
with waves of mulled citrus mist
warmed by your face watching mine
in the mirror from the hallway
as I lacquer on deep burgundy
candy apple lipstick
before the sun awakes early
one April morning.

Memories of orange blossoms
permeating the night sky
on Route 66…
the beige top down on
the old black convertible with red leather seats
When I was eighteen

and Steven French kissed me
behind Paradise Mountain
where the sheriff watched
with the gigantic flashlight
and I was told “good girls” never go
alone.

Underneath the auburn henna
graying hair peeks.
Longer jackets of fine silk smooth the hips
and lengthen the torso.
Longer skirts cover the knees.

And still…

I am overwhelmed by emotions
that smother my driving
North on the 605
with one whiff of warm mulled citrus
transferred from your face
to my sheerest pink silk blouse
during our dark, early morning embraces
that still make my knees weak an hour later
my heart pound.
Remembering again how it felt
to be wide-eyed, eighteen
and waiting for my prince.

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Anticipation

Albq enhanced

I have loved the thought of you since dawn…

My soul was touched at twilight,

melting my five year old heart

as first stars appeared on the horizon in winter.

Whispers…

Hold my heart’s attention

like the saxophone notes

that breeze past gracing walls

as sounds drift up the stairs

stirring my eyelashes

as sleep envelops me.

For I have known the thought of you since nine…

When Alan pulled my hair and made me cry.

Not felt feelings this intense since twelve

when Michael kissed my mouth in darkness

on my childhood porch;

As she was imminently awaiting me,

the woman I could hardly wait to be.

I have heard the music of this melting voice,

my blood has turned to maple syrup more than once.

Whispers…

So intense they’ve since become

a warm caress of summer sun, ivory sand in late July.

For I have loved and lost but not as this,

knowing love and loss go hand in hand.

I still can hardly wait to feel your kiss…

This love of yours will surely be the one

that lifts my spirits higher than the plains.

Gently held in trust above the clouds,

time escaped though never lost in vain.

My arms are open wide to grasp the sun as if in reach…

praying for your touch so warm at dawn

as sleep surrounds my silent waiting heart.

Joy as this comes only once then may be gone.

For I have loved the thought of you since dawn…

and I will love the thought of you till I am gone…

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd  

Barbies

barbies

We tried each other on

New best friends

Playing “Barbie” in our sixties.

A task not for the faint hearted.

She had gone on vacation the summer of 1965

Never returning to this life

That I know and love.

She was frozen in another time of

Long teased hair

Below the shoulders

That made her look years older.

An alien from another galaxy,

She cried “But men like long hair.”

While I cringed

Sharing my enlightenment

And love of books

With no one in particular…

Except “Barbie” chattering continuously

About internet websites of men

Loving women with long hair.

Me… not one to understand willingly

Or care that plastic is a fabric…

A fabric that has increasingly become

Quite unfamiliar to my soul.

All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd

Benny

Benny Newspaper

Munich was always cold, especially in 1946.  We lived in a “lager” – an American Displaced Person’s Camp.  A four-story building with large rooms that housed multiple individuals and families – 60 or 70 people to a room; each group divided by hanging dark khaki green Army blankets.  Our lack of privacy, with Army folding cots for beds, is where I spent my formative years.  The Jews’ Holocaust was over.  America had won WWII.  Mine was just beginning.

On top of the mountain near the building, the train ran by every night.  Even with my eyes closed covered by the dark olive blanket; I could always hear the whistle.  Every time I heard the sound, I was afraid – afraid that it would come and take my Papa away.  I’d hear them whispering in Yiddish at night when they thought I was sleeping.  My American Army cot was only inches away.

By current standards, Papa was small in stature, standing only 5’2” tall.  Telly Savalas’ twin brother and only half his height.  Though he had all the strength and charm of Kojak.  The highest safest place I’ve ever known were his shoulders when I was three and Simchat Torah was taking place autumn of 1948.  Outside we walked to a makeshift synagogue down rolling green hills.  He held my little legs tight just above my shoes and socks.  I felt so warm, loved, and very tall.  In my right hand was a white Israeli flag with blue stripes, a blue Star of David, and a little red apple on top of the wooden pole.  My left hand clung to his ear and held on to his baldhead for dear life.  All together we were over seven feet tall my papa, the flag, and me.

By then the Allies had won the War and Jewish children could walk the icy blood drenched soil of Germany without being carted off in trucks like strays picked up by dog catchers.

By the time I was four, I had my own rabbinical tutor, an old white-haired bearded Orthodox rabbi who taught me Hebrew.  The Women’s Liberation Movement wouldn’t come into existence for another twenty years, though it mattered not to my Papa that I was only a girl.  He cared only that I love the process of learning, of reading the ancient text.  He wanted to make sure that I learned the alphabet of my dead grandparents (who disappeared with a heartbeat when a German bomb exploded their building in the Warsaw Ghetto).  He made sure he gave me the gift of going to school; something he dreamed of but never had the chance.

Papa was an expert in the “black market” and came down the hill of our camp in a pale tan Mercedes Benz sedan with sunroof and matching leather seats.  We never did find out how he “bought it.”  He pulled up along side the building with the sunroof open and me in the back seat, while my other threw wrapped candy from the window above.  I can close my eyes and still hear the laughter.

With all the horrors he experienced, I remember him smiling and joyous, always full of stories and singing.  Always singing to me:  “Avf daem pripichok brent a firerl.  In de shteeb is heiz.  Un de Rebbe layrent kliene kinderleck daem aleph baze…”  – “On the hearth there burns a little fire.  In the house it’s warm.  And the Rabbi teaches little children their ABCs…”   

He told wondrous stories of Sholem Aleichem, the Kabbalah, ghosts and goblins, never about the horrors he had seen in the war.  Those he kept inside.  And they tormented him always.  Some of the happiest memories I have are a devastated, freezing landscape, horrible brushes with illness and death, and a Papa singing away the pain.  He saved my life over and over again.

Memories of being put on a train, then on trucks, having socks put in my mouth so the soldiers wouldn’t hear a baby’s cries as we crossed the border crossings, knowing my baby brother would never make it home from the Munich hospital, hearing muffled cries all night, and sleeping next to men and women having sex in the next cot so they could prove they existed.  All of that he washed away with his lullabies, all of that and the black numbers etched on the arms of his friends.

Of all the things I’ve been able to achieve since landing in New Orleans in 1951, the one thing I can’t seem to do is return to him the gifts he gave me.  He’s closing in on eighty and lives in a tiny two-room apartment with newspapers in stacks three feet high from the floor and a loaded gun under his mattress.  He hoards his food, his “stuff” and won’t go to doctors (whom he thinks are still trying to kill him).  He hangs up the phone every time one of us calls.  And he refuses to open the door when any of his four children come to see him.

So we all stopped calling and coming by to see the Papa who seems to have abandoned his children.  Because we wanted to spare him, but mostly ourselves the pain of rejection.  We send the traditional cards and often a present.  The silence is devastating and the moat keeps getting wider.  He makes up stories about who did what to whom and when.  We hear about them from acquaintances who run into him at the grocery store.  He keeps the hurts close, wrapping the stories around him like a warm blanket to keep him safe from the children who love him.

As if feelings were bullets, he needs to wear a bulletproof vest to keep him safe from the children who remind him of the ones he buried half a world away in Uzbekistan and Germany.  Safe from the little girl who wanted desperately to sing away the pain.  Who now writes away his pain instead.

For those people who question whether the Holocaust ever happened, I am proof that there is not one, but two Holocausts that always take place.  The one that slaughters human beings like cattle and with less compassion; and a second Holocaust each person who survives carries with them every day of their lives.  Victims of wars they do not create.  Nevertheless, they wake up every day reliving those horrors, then shutting the door on love and kindness, because to risk caring is too great a pain.

Now and then, though I rarely hear a train whistle at night these days, whenever I do the three-year-old inside me still says a little prayer, “ Please dear God, don’t let them come and take my Papa away.”

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

*I wrote this in 1994 after hearing an evening newscast about the Holocaust deniers.  It was published in a local newspaper in Albuquerque, NM in 1995.  My Papa died alone a few days before his 88th birthday in 2005.  I read this at his funeral.  Little did I know in 1994, that I was writing his eulogy.

Black and Blue

She used to sayblack_and_blue,_abstract

“You’ll be sorry you were born a female.”

As if I had a choice at six

Little children come back for more.

 

She used to say

“You’ll be sorry you were born so smart.

Men don’t like smart women.”

I was twelve came back for more.

 

She used to say

“You’re so fat no one will want you.”

Twenty-nine, size five, a hundred three pounds

But I came back for more.

 

At forty-six the therapist said

“Words hurt more than bruises.”

          I pondered…

          I questioned…

          I wrote…  

No wonder I wear so much black

And paint my walls multiple shades of blue.

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

Dear Heart

This beautiful photograph is from Vox Poetica – an amazing website for poets and writers.  Click on Vox Poetica and you will be transported directly there.

sister dear

Little sister dear, little sister

Listen to my stories of Alice and Dorothy

Of Ruth and Naomi

Countless heroines

Women of honor, of grace

Of beautiful eyes and wondrous hearts

Who ride in carriages drawn by golden horses with manes

The color of the light in your hair

I’ll remember for years to come

When I grow older and wish for gentler days

Like those we share today

An instant in time

Seconds that remain in our hearts

Staying hidden, next to the left ventricle

Where I shall carry you always

I promise

Little sister

Listen to my whispers

Discovering letters and words

To share with you

That I am only learning myself

Knowing that I will always be your heroine

For one

Little sister, little sister

All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd

Denim Blue Days

skulls

Denim blues on fences painted

Ready for a party

of skulls & wooden angels

Hung on nails, left to wither…

Adorn the roadside

           where we stop to buy chilies and beer,

Just past the right turn of the Rio Grande.

Purple blue mountain ranges

          divide horizons

Pointing North or East…

depending a slight turn of the compass

         towards the ever glowing

orange mango sunset.

Winds tossing bramble bushes

          around – against

The desert floor

          like beach balls at the ocean

In the sandy warm summers

of my childhood.

What a day to  

R… 

             I… 

                           D… 

                                         E…                               

           ride with the top down.

A day for keeping faded denim jackets

           (forgotten in the trunk last spring),

Close, before the evening chill envelops.

Like skulls bleached

forgotten

Left to wither, left to whiten

           on the desert floor

Sheltered by a blanket

of the setting sun.

*photograph – ©1996 “Jackalope Fences” by Joshua Liberman