Skip to content

for my father David Hoffman Sept 20, 1920-Jan 9, 1985

My father and I spend his last night
Cooking spaghetti
water boils bundles one by one
Half a handful in each fist
Spun to intertwined strands
My father could decipher a hundred million mathematical formulas wrote daily letters to his D-Day bride* faced an ailing war traded immigrant roots for a college degree wore a bright orange suit to a cousin’s wedding to spite the in-laws taught me always use the turn signal entering the highway
never learned a single recipe
My father asks how much to slide from the thin red box
how long to wait until cooked to taste
how much time is left

*Since this poem was written, I found a ketubah for June 6, 1944 and one for Nov 16, 1943. 

Back To Top