Miriam Feder home


Receiving the gift

I listen to the life leave you and I’m told there’s not much time. I must write your story. I may tell your story. The elusive gifts of urgency and permission.

Your story never had time for doubt: can I do it? will it be right? enough? You dove in and made things happen. That’s how it sounds all these years later, at least. Your hedge? Don’t expect too much. Don’t expose too much.

No I didn’t have to do battle with Hitler, with a crazed nation following a madman to the destruction of millions of innocents, including my family and my freedom. I have had it easy. But he took my family before I knew. He tore it from a long-feathered roost in a civilized nation, a nest that should have stood more generations well, providing steady improvement for those who followed. Only thing is, war marches backward over civilization.

Yet I must honor the storm and flight. I’m the child of two people who never would have met but for the uprooting and destruction–that crazy sequence of coincidences that bring people together.

My Mother was tempered in a brutal forge. She passes along the burnt-blue blade and the well turned sheath. She dies.