The Generations
The generations come and go. This I know:
When my father’s father painted ships in San Juan,
He feared the pull of the ocean’s undertow.
When my mother’s mother was carried out of her bungalow,
Wrapped in a plain shawl, her tombstone read: Peh-Nun פנ.
The generations come and go. This I know.
When my father spoke to my aunt from Guaynabo,
I cried when he said to me, his face pale and drawn,
“Your cousin tried wading through an undertow.”
When the sonographer revealed the embryo,
My wife and I called my mother, who rattled on:
“The generations come and go. This I know.”
When we danced and ate chocolate gateau
At my daughter’s wedding, I knew she’d soon be gone;
That restless pull driven by an inexplicable undertow.
When my daughter called all the way from Glasgow,
We learned, to our joy, of our new grandson, Sean,
Born to a current, like sargassum, I know,
Pulsating along a gyrating undertow.
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