Milk

(Bielsko-Biała, Poland)

I was that child born of darkness, standing in front of the huge iron stove in the shared kitchen, waiting— Outside: charred silence. A gray city still licking its War wounds near that horror-smoldering, unspeakable name— standing in front of the mammoth stove, watching closely a chipped blue enamel pot next to Mother in her woolen, or flowery, dress waiting— for that calm round whiteness to curdle and crust like a breeze-caressed, then wind-crinkled lake, or the face of the peasant who delivered the still-warm cans every day before sunrise; and before the comforting daily transfer from Mother’s to my outstretched hand— Father and Mother still constant as suns, the stars and stones of the future oceans away— to dip a reverent finger into the gossamer throbbing, hold up that tenuous treasure for a moment of sumptuous expectancy, before transmuting its kiss on my lips into the melting riches on tongue, then the consummated promise on palate. Never again such simple harvest of sweetness. Never again such faithful fulfillment. Never again the firstness of childhood wonders.