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By Martin Lindauer
The last of a family dies.
Unmarried, widowed, or childless, who visits the grave?
Children converted, who says Kaddish?
Your genes end with you.
Memories and effects of actions live on,
But only for a generation, maybe two.
Your letters, if kept, last longer, even if unread,
But like bones turn to dust.
Your soul in Heaven,
Perhaps awaiting the Messiah and Judgment Day.
You remain as part of a people,
A member of the family Abraham,
An unbroken line surviving
And the Holocaust.
Deportations, forced conversions, persecutions, prejudice.
As part of that history you are immortal.
comments welcome: mblindauer(at)earthlink.net
from the August 2006 Edition of the Jewish Magazine
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