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She liked her Saturdays, of course,
as it was family day and she would
dust off her high class shoes,
the ones that should have gone
inside the coffin of her mother.
She'd stand quite still then,
awaiting the descent of
her precious ebony chiffon.
She walked, flaunting
an imposing figure, to all
who were not busy
at the moment and could,
thus ascertain the absolute
and so essential correctness
of her attire. It was in order.
Hell would have broken loose
if one ignored tradition.
Small towns do not forgive.
The word was 'proper',
needless to say, it's what I heard
a minute, perhaps two
after my birth, down in the cellar,
on old potatoes from the autumn harvest.
Yet, even bombs of World War Two
could not have influenced
the codes we'd stitched into our lives.
The ritual consisted of
the bark of Strolch,
the German Shepherd.
He had a special tune
for her, more like Hello.
The bark then was the signal
for some thirty geese,
so vigilant on golden pond.
It was as if a last rehearsal
before the concert let us know
that cups had better be
on the old table for the brew
of last night's roast from Kasakhstan.
And, like a future vision
an Ed McMahon
from Johnny's show,
my mother would,
before the door had opened
whisper 'Here is Hulda...! '
'Morgen, Tante Hulda',
we chorused, all five,
well mannered children
who sat, quietly.
And grinned like little fools
who suddenly had been
placed in the presence
of her Majesty,
of never-doubted greatness.
My sister, who'd been hogging
from day one it seems to me
my uncle's lap,
(who also hung around on Saturdays) ,
would glare at me. And all because
I was Aunt Hulda's 'special boy',
so 'strong and smart,
and so inquisitive.'
She never tired of confirming this,
while rubbing calloused hands
across my parted hair.
(And nor did I) .
I dreamed the other day,
could smell the coffee
and feel her loving paw.
It was a sad awakening.
Herbert Nehrlich
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