Is never knowing someone, never knowing?

Ancient wood desk, dark wood paneling, my father’s office in darkness. Life-light burnt out, hard to read. Books with leather binding, high to the ceiling. Bookmarks of newspaper clippings & torn pages of poetry buried.

My father never read poetry,

Never talked about poetry,

Never poetry.

Inside the desk, mysteries. Black and white photo, unfamiliar woman, Violet, 1939.  Naturalization papers, identity papers, photos of my father, with names that are not my father’s.

My father never told me about his life,

Never wrote about his life,

Never life.

Perhaps the world ends when the clouds appear

On this winter day,

I pull a thread on the sweater, 

the one my mom told me not to wear.

My history unravels, 

sits tangled, 

on the floor. 

I take out my knitting needles, 

pick up the end of the yarn

and ask,

Was this my birth or my death? 

What color are my first words?

What are the shapes of my first steps? 

I sit, 

untangling threads,

Looking for where my life dropped a stitch.