Half of the green donkey left Russia, my young grandfather raising an ax, then down on
the dorsal spine. He wobbled the two-legged half-animal deep into birches,where it would undergo
survey from wolves and vultures. His mother stuffed lunch in his pack. Gestured remember us,
with muddied gloves. Cheeks the color of her red apron.
I've read stories. In one, a woman dies in childbirth and is given a donkey's burial. In another, a
man arrives in New York, meets a woman at a cafeteria, and one night on his way home sees a
ghost. I wonder if he could have produced the hide of a donkey, out of passion, like a wedding
dance where feet braid together. Could my grandfather do the same thing, wallpapering
customer's homes—produce a donkey from between sheets of florals and stripes?
In his Flatbush apartment on shabbat, pinstriped suit, my grandfather read the paper,peekabood
under each word his mother's voice—keep yourself good. He remembered something overheard
once, standing outside the kitchen, mumbled to a neighbor about the rest of my days. Stuffing his
pipe with tobacco, he imagined her rearranging the clothesline so the word days would come
first, then the word rest would appear in a field of bluebells.
All these years later, I can't help wondering if his letters to his mother were enough to break her
quiet nightmares. I know so little about him. He was in his 80s when my brother and I were
young, walking along a busy boulevard to a store, where he bought us Silly Putty. His face had
deep lines, his body looked shrunk, as if back in Russia he'd stored everything in small compartments.
I never asked. Did his mother find the remaining half-donkey among trees and buttercups?
Would it vanquish the cave of tears forested into her as she hugged the animal, wondering, what
can you do with half? Maybe forget the chaos of being a Jew in Russia?