It’s what we don’t say
that holds us together.
In the late afternoon,
walking along the Danube
we talk about the hills
and the color of the water,
the street names
as foreign and clumsy
in our mouths as sand.
My father, slapping the concrete
with his umbrella as he walks,
wonders aloud about
peace and wars that tear apart
countries and names.
A hundred years ago,
my family said goodbye
to this tiny corner of the blue sky.
We are both here and there.
Here, in Budapest,
where the pregnant hills
meet hollow flatness.
But we are also
in the innards of New Jersey
where my father
is the youngest brother again.
We are thinking
of the American Dream
and trundle beds,
wars on radios
and bombs that fell, and didn’t.
I’m glad we are here, together.
It’s just the two of us
walking and chatting,
the way it’s always been.
We are taking
one last lap around the block,
the weavings of the past
spread out behind us
like our heavy coats, or wings.