My grandfather is standing over the old box.
There are books laid out
on his worktable,
and smaller boxes
also made of wood,
folded fabric, an old knife,
some tools,
small sculpted figures,
and a square music box
with a tiny gold crank.
When he looks up at me,
he has tears in his eyes.
Etan. He smiles.
It’s been almost fifty years
since we came to Angel Island in 1940.
Fifty years, can you believe it?
He holds up a faded photograph
in black and white.
It’s him and a woman
standing on a huge bridge,
with buildings like castles
rising up behind it.
I walk to the table
and pick up the old knife,
turn it around in my hands.
It’s my father and mother in Prague.
He looks just like his father, I think.
He picks things up
and puts them down,
each item a key
unlocking something,
but he doesn’t enter,
he stays with me
even though I can see in his eyes
he’s in a far-off place,
the stories he always tells
coming alive in a new way.