The poet's mother stood forlorn, tugging at the impatient sleeves of
the departing as she demanded: "How shall I get back?" - but she
wouldn't say whereto. Roundly ignored by the pulsating throngs of
well-wishers, she watched them comparing impressions, exchanging phone
numbers, mourning the poet and, through his agency, themselves.
"I knew your son" - I said.
I really did - perhaps not as intimately as a friend, but probably more
than did most of those present. Once I visited that warehouse of
weathered books he called his home, sat on his monkish bed, played the
effaced keys of his battered typewriter.
I offered her a ride and she accepted, sighing with childish relief.
Nomi drove and I listened to the poet's mother. Like him she wept in
words.
"He used to visit me every week" - with pride. Invited us for a drink
in her room at the seniors' home. The evening chilled, she observed.
How about a warm libation ("I have even hot chocolate"). When we
declined politely, she tempted us with exclusive access to letters the
poet wrote to her.
We took a rain check and made a heartening spectacle out of noting down
her address and her phone number.
The night guard at the entrance, besieged by a polished wooden counter
and facing banks of noiseless television screens, winked at us.
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