The wonderful things

She was in her eighties when I met her
long grey hair in a bun
sprigs of lavender tucked behind each ear
she said it was good for her memory
made her remember
the sweet moments.

She made pots of tea for us children
chipped little cups of boiled mint and honey
read the leaves at the bottom of each one
with great seriousness
divining the adventures we would go on
love stories and elephant rides.

She never worked
waited for her husband every evening
he was the night-shift bookkeeper
he rode his bicycle home
in a suit and tie
the children long since fed and tucked in bed
she fed him dinner
and sat across from him
with her knitting
while he ate
and asked about his day
the same way every time

tell me the wonderful things.

Many years later
after they had both died
I learned they were hidden
two young Jews
the delicacy of new love
grew in the cracks of the savagery.

She made him promise her
if the world was returned to kindness
that he would save every tendril
of joy from every stolen day
and bring it home for her.

She seemed so magical to me
I never knew
how close the darkness
danced and how fervently
she worked
to be reminded
of light.