She knelt silent in the backyard garden,
her ruddy hand rubbing the ring, its set
of six tiny diamonds meant to glisten
like a halo around the master-cut
ruby center. “We must go! Now!” he called.
She wrapped it in wax paper, dug beneath
the carrots, deep, pushed the packet down, stalled,
then covered it with dirt. She tried to breathe.
Began to cry. Rose and ran to the car.
She didn’t know it then, about Auschwitz.
But she’d return to Prague—body, soul scarred—
the only one left. Suffer endless fits
of night terrors. Press tight the ring. Never
forget its symbol of love forever.
Roger Armbrust
January 29, 2015
