My Grandparents’ Home

She is standing,
In the middle of the street.
The shadow of the afternoon sun,
Immense in it’s loneliness.
The flowers are spreading their brilliant colours;
Stretching their hands beyond human imagination to welcome her.
Feet echoing, on the granite sidewalk that rough masculine hands built,
Only twenty years ago.
Her footsteps create the sounds of ringing bells.
Singing
The songs of a bloody wonderland,
“Israel, land of gold…”
A crooked yellow building on the girl’s left side
The green path twirls like a snake,
Before allowing her to come in.
Running through the bleak walls.
Pushing the giant door.
Biting her pink tongue in the pressure of the force.
Little pale hands opening with wide anticipation of the grandpa bear hug.
Brown hands enveloping the fragile body;
Heart beats of those who are destined to live and those who will die.
An old woman,
Dressed in a gray dress.
Hole right on the breastbone;
Ironically, where purity shines.
Apron ripped at the seams but smells like onions and mother made chicken.
She’s putting mushrooms; real ones that are made of hard work and beads of sweat.
The swishing sound of butter fills the room,
Blooms out of reach.
The girl with two braids sticking out and her hands reaching for everything in the room.
The chocolate candy on the red table, fulfilling desire.
She flops on the couch.
Grandma turns and her ancient eyes sparkle with affection.
Unfortunately, the frying pan falls loudly on the wooden floor;
The sweet smelling omelette drops.
“It’s okay, I love you anyways…”
Child hugs grandma to forgive her insolence;
Forgetting that cooking doesn’t compare to concentration camps and six million souls.