The Fourth Poem

 Kostroma University Rector and my friend Alyosha Bazankov, a history teacher

The Fourth Poem April 24th, 2022

Photos comfort me when I’m sad or lonely.

My sister sent me one of my family before

I turned two. My young father held me, with

my mother close by. I raised my hand and

pointed at the photographer, my grandfather.

You can tell I loved him. He used to let us

play doctor with him later when he had

heart troubles. He’d lie on the floor and

give us his stethoscope. He died when I was

eight, in 1945. The second world war was

ending. We came for a month to help my

grandmother. She always called me Judith,

never Judy. “Judith, don’t sit in the draft. 

You’ll catch your death.” That scared me,

but Grandpa never did. Then I have a

photo of my friend Margaret with her first

baby, Marshall. She was looking down

at him, amazed, stunned, his head no bigger

than her hand. I’d come back from the beach

in 1986 when I learned her labor had begun.

We worked together. She helped me with my 

Carolina Wren Press and the work of

publishing books. And I arrived in time

to be present as she pushed Marshall out.

I love that connection: the awed mother

and the tiny new baby. Now Baby Marshall

has babies of his own. Life goes on.