Vicious roses

1848 My grandfather had done it, evidently, For my father's sake and mine. A hundred years ago he packed it up ---His life, our culture, my heritage --- And buried it in some Berlin backyard, Then caught a boat, a train, a wagon west. Did well. Bought land, a farm, A suit, a car, a new pronunciation of the name. And all went well. Pieta I see my mother infrequently now. Holidays and emergencies bring us together- Two adults with a history called “Mother and Son". We face each other quietly then, like tired Conspirators speaking softly over cups of coffee, With twenty-three years of illusion Four hundred miles of discretion between us. How I long for a release from this polite hypocrisy! In my mind, I have seen a thousand times the conversation, The confrontation that our civil secrecy prohibits. All the things unsaid! All the subtleties exploded and explained! I swear I want to tell her and I want to know. But I cannot force my confession upon her. I wait for her to ask. And she, Intuiting danger in that renewed intimacy...She remains silent. (See more in text.)

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