David
is dead.
David
my brother is dead.
Yis gadal, v’yis kadash…
I
was my brother’s keeper.
For
a few short years
I
was my brother’s keeper.
But
time did change the roles
And
he became my strength, my rock.
Now
he is dead.
——-
From
inherited memories of Russian pogroms,
From
the sweatshops of New York,
From
the hills of Massachussetts
To
the cities of the world,
An
urban and an urbane man
Whose
clarion voice was ever heard
Against
hypocrisy and cant;
He
wandered
And
stopped awhile
And
traveled on again
Until
he came to Susqeuhanna country.
Standing
at his window,
Looking
at the broad lawn sloping to the river:
Susquehanna
and Chenango
And,
from his childhood,
The
Housatonic, too.
What
wonderful river names
The
old, sweet-sounding Indian names.
What
wonderful country
The
green and rolling hills,
The
wild flowers of this land,
Goldenrod
in golden waves,
And
Queen Anne’s Lace
And
purple mallow.
Now
here at last he found his home,
His
work, his friends, his people.
Susquehanna
country.
——-
Can
I say
That
he is gone?
And
must I cry forever?
For
this I know
Beyond
the tears,
Beyond
the thrusting pain:
All that he was
Remains as long as memory remains.
—Dorothy
Nash, (197?)
