They’re gone. All of them. A whole generation.
They who upheld the family name.
My grandparents. My parents.
The aunts with their crafts,
The uncles with their war stories.
The last has gone and only I remember them.
They’re gone. A new awareness overtakes me.
I am free of family traditions.
No one is left to criticize me:
No elders I can embarrass
No family name to ruin.
No one to say, “What will the neighbors think?”
They’re gone. I study their faces in my albums.
No one is left to set my boundaries.
I can act with abandon if I wish:
Insult rude people I dislike,
Take a lover of my choice.
What does it matter – the family reputation?
They’re gone. The generations pass on.
I am challenged by my new choices:
By the passing of time,
By gaining control.
No need now to embrace the old culture.
They’re gone. But am I really free?
There are new voices to whom I must answer.
I am both parent and grandparent now:
Admonishing the young,
Criticizing their new ways.
I remain, Carrying on the family traditions.
– Joan S Stark
