J AMES V ALVIS Here in America The elderly Jewish man, survivor of the Holocaust, waddles to the hot tub, his feet so swollen it‘s like he‘s walking on bowling pins. His hair is sparse from chemotherapy, belly bloated as if he swallowed a beach ball like the one my wife and daughter are playing with on this ordinary day. I‘m sitting at the table, reading Ploughshares. He smiles at me, gives a little salute. We‘re friends in that way strangers are friends after they‘ve seen each other over many years. Grabbing the metal bar, arms doing all the work, he lowers himself in the hot water, one slow painful step and then another, until at last he can rest inside the warm water that brings him partial relief of pain that never ends. His ancestors once helped put my savior on the cross. My ancestors once put his family in ovens. But he calls across the pool to my daughter by name and asks how school is going. And when he wants the jets on in the hot tub I set aside my magazine and turn the dial for him. Now that I think of it, here in America, there‘s no such thing as an ordinary day.
Segue 10: Fall 2011
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