Words || Yehuda Aharon 

I remember, sometimes –

the very few times you slept,

the house shuddered as your hard breath

almost blew life away.

Tzvi and I crept into your office


we studied, we proved ourselves of you,

your chemicals, your books, your once grey hair.


I remember, Sunday afternoons

you were in the yard with a circular saw,

building us something stable

like you –

the sound of industry excited me,

I loved the smell of sawdust.

It lingered then left.


I remember, sixteen and seventeen

Tzvi and I abandoned your world

I found whisky, girls and cigarettes

I stopped calling you Tatti

scared it was not cool.

Tzvi broke first stewing his brain

with Warcraft and self-doubt

“Scientists don’t deal with emotions”

but NPCs give better thanks

and park benches are more accepting.

Now, when I remember

I know

your voice was so big

because you were hollow,

exhaust fumes running

on the smell of an oily dollar.

Too tired to rest,

too burnt out to stop.

Now I know,


*Tatti is the Yiddish equivalent to ‘Daddy.’