Worship to the Roots and the Traditions

As previous spoils
after a long-lasting siege
And
as an amulet
to the long-lasting war.
I traveled them
from miles away and
I have them with me.
(I preferred them from the photograph.
With photographs we will be traveling now?
This isn't serious.)
Very carefully
and with great devotion
as it suits the occasion
I have placed them
in the most beautiful spot
in my room
in my new home
in the new land.
A bit high
to distinguish them from
all the other things
as on a sacred altar
worship to the roots
and the traditions.
And as I finished
I sat opposite and
looked at them well.
As old as they are, and
as wretched from the years
and the heavy steps.
The one, the left one
straight to point in front
and holding all the weight
of the invisible body.
The other, the right one,
leaning away
A bit worn, a bit weak
does not endure
the exhaustion, this one.
I see the invisible fingers
moving all together, and
one after the other
asphyxiating
in their narrow prison.
At first
the room was filled with a scent,
a scent of a sweet presence.
Your remembrance overcame me
And then
in front of my astonished eyes
I saw them moving
As two pairs of lips
invisible
like enormous mouths
open in the sky.
I saw them and
I heard them talking to me:
"You're late calling me this time,
my child, are you well?"
I heard you, Mother,
I sensed you in the room
and I touched you in the air
and with great devotion
I leaned and kissed
your old pair of shoes.

© 1988 by Della Rounick. All Rights Reserved