I remember the rooms,

something about each room

Some had cat meows,

some dog barks,

some silent gazes

and passing remarks

The mother was affectionate

and caring,

gave me books of fairytales;

read them to me,

time and again,

tucked me in,

stroke my hair and my chin

The father was kind

and distant,

with a strong sense of fairness

and equality,

brought home reference books

and encyclopedias,

binoculars, a microscope

and a first TV set,

pored over travel books

at the kitchen table

when he'd come in from the barn,

or listened attentively to the radio news,

not to be disturbed then,

still in working clothes

smelling of cows

in the 1950s,

his warm woollen socks on

under the table,

the wall clock ticking

When Sputnik pierced the autumn sky

of October,

the father had a rare drink

and brought me out

into a field at night,

where we both threw our heads back

and saw the moving star of Lenin pass

I remember the funny smell

of the father's breath

He seemed alien

The father passed at 87,

without strife,

mumbling in his sleep

The mother passed at 95

at an old age home,

intellectually completely clear,

with a witty mind full of jokes

up to the end,

ready to go, clear to go

I saw her two days before

departure

As I left she grabbed my hand

and kissed it;

an only occurrence

She knew,

and I carry that final gesture

of love

with me

through new rooms

It was just age that had aged

around her