Trying to catch a butterfly
in a glass jar
in my grandmother’s backyard
stumbling over the shadows
of yesterday.

My grandmother hums
bits of liturgy, weaving
the notes
like braids of challah.

Above her sink
a plant that reminds her
of Russia, watered
by memories
hot as her teenage years.

Sometimes she gazes
at an old photo
her rabbi father
her mother crouched
beneath an old-world weight
knowing she will never see them
in living colour again.

What will I do, I think,
when I catch that butterfly
just beyond my fingertips?
And I keep running,
scooping at light,
as I fill my jar to the brim.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *