Sunday, Nov. 1, 1942
I don’t know which astonishes me more: That my mother wrote this poem or that it survived 72 years, neatly folded and packed into that cardboard box.
I blush to quote it all so here is the last stanza. I’m guessing my mother left it for my father to find the day after she boarded the train for New York. In his Oct. 30 letter, my father had written: “ Fortunately, it’s Friday and ‘Life’ came out. I hope you keep me so busy looking at you tonight that I don’t get a chance to look at ‘Life.’ Then I’ll have it for Sunday and Monday.” After he found this poem, he was probably not so interested in “Life,” the magazine, but in the prospect of a new life transforming a couple into a family.