Regarding the Old Man, b. Vilnius, Lithuania, 1921
The Old Man counted the days like beats. He tried to put the image of his father and the other men out of his mind, but no amount of steps or days would accomplish that feat. Nothing would ever be one note, one chord, or one pitch again. Not forgetting, not believing, and definitely not living. With the greatest clarity, he pictured his mother rubbing her throat, opening her mouth to sing, the songbirds perched around their summer home on the coast of Palanga. The Old Man kept this sweet blue memory lodged in his parched throat, like a robin’s egg, making it difficult to swallow.