I think my friend Ilse

was working so hard

to write her poesie

in her fanciest formal script

that she forgot what year it is.

It’s a mistake many of us make

in January,

even when writing

in ordinary script.

After twelve months

of writing 1937,

the habit is not yet broken.

Or maybe it’s wishful thinking.

Maybe Ilse wishes

she could flip the calendar

backward to January 1937.

One year ago,

there was Hitler,

there were Nazis,

there was hate,

but it was softer,

quieter.

Father says

it was because of

the Olympic Games,

held in Berlin in 1936.

With the world watching,

the Nazis behaved,

for a while.

I wish I could turn back time, too.

Not only because the hate was softer,

but also because my very favorite uncle,

Uncle Max, was still here,

with his wife, Aunt Alice.

I loved to sleep over

at their apartment.

They have no children,

but they love children,

me in particular.

At night

in their apartment,

we drank cups of tea

with sugar cubes

and ate pieces of linzertorte.

Before bed

we put sugar cubes

on the windowsill—

for the stork, we said.

The stork never came.

Uncle Max and Aunt Alice

have sailed to America.

Maybe there, the stork will find them.

Maybe there, their hands will be filled

with the baby they crave,

with luck and blessings,

with the softness and quiet

of a different year

in a different place.