Next Door

　　by Joan Selinger Sidney

　　 Oaks drag alongside the road，

　　 weighted by yesterday's snow.

　　 There's Frauka walking alone，

　　 the hood of her parka

　　 snow-lit against the trees.

　　 I pull over. How is he？ But before

　　 I can answer， I see them last

　　 summer： Frauka， and Father

　　 leaning on Mother， wanting to believe

　　 her will can make him well.

　　 Sitting on the lawn，

　　 pretending to read， I am unable

　　 to tell them， My legs won't walk.

　　 Go on without me.

　　 Eleven years I've protected them-

　　 Holocaust survivors-by not naming

　　 my disease. Wishing them dead

　　 before they'd see me in a wheelchair.

　　 Frauka whispers， My younger brother

　　 died one day before your father.

　　 Tears rim her eyes， her slim

　　 body shivers in the wind.

　　 For a moment we are closer

　　 in our sorrow than we've ever been