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Visiting my father 

I met my brother in the town where he was
on his way to see our father and wanted
me to tag along
He, our dad, lived in an old house and
surprised to see his youngest son also
He brought beer from the kitchen and
my brother and he spoke about labor 
politics 
I was at the time a communist and had 
contempt for those not sharing my faith
After all, I had spent several days at 
a hospital in Odessa, where doctors wore
tall white hats, a chef would envy
My father avoided looking my way
 I sat reading a newspaper, looking him over
He was of middle height and still had dark
hair, slim, I wondered if he was a kven
The first time I saw him in 1948, he was 
drunk gave me a bar of chocolate with 
photo of a female film star inside the wrapper
He was much older now, rolled hand-made
cigarettes and had a cough 
That was the last time I met my father
when he died at seventy-five, I was as
usual absent

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