Anyone who knew Elizabeth knew how much she loved to read.
We have been memorializing her with book funds. So far they are:
Tusten Cochecton Library
Narrowsburg, NY 12764
This is where we spent summers from when she was six until she died.
CBA Library
6245 Randall Rd.
Syracuse, NY 13214
Lizzy's grandfather, Leonard P. Markert, Jr., started a book fund at the Christian Brothers Academy library in Syracuse where his father graduated in 1918. There is a kiosk with Elizabeth's name on it there.
At the Polling Place
My name is always first
above my husband's
first initial P
before first initial R
Even though I always forget which district
I'm in, the ladies at the tables are nice
They turn the pages of the big spiral bound notebook
to our signatures. There is my name
and Richard's, but above both of ours
for the first time is another.
I wonder, whose?
It is our daughter's,
aged eighteen, who had registered
to vote, but never got to because she died.
What would you do? I came to vote
for president, but I stood there and I cried.
above my husband's
first initial P
before first initial R
Even though I always forget which district
I'm in, the ladies at the tables are nice
They turn the pages of the big spiral bound notebook
to our signatures. There is my name
and Richard's, but above both of ours
for the first time is another.
I wonder, whose?
It is our daughter's,
aged eighteen, who had registered
to vote, but never got to because she died.
What would you do? I came to vote
for president, but I stood there and I cried.
Labels:
Elizabeth Aakre,
poetry,
voting
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How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.
> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry
> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry