Janet R. Kirchheimer
The Angel of Death has come four times for my father.
Once in Dachau, the other times in the hospital.
But the Angel has not found him. Perhaps, my father is good at hiding.
A friend tells me that this is the time of my life
that family will start to die,
tells me to get ready.
The training wheels are off, I am ten. My father lets go
of the back of my bike, and I begin to pedal on my own.
“Keep looking straight ahead, don’t look down, or you’ll fall.
When you stop and turn around, you’ll see how far you’ve gone on your own.”