I imagine that you were conflicted,
when your brother left for America,
leaving behind more than could be understood,
by anyone, who already stood on the shores
of the land of opportunity, and assimilation.
When his family was finally able to join him,
what could be envisioned as their future,
amidst the multitude of countless faces,
indifferent to the truth that binds the lives
of the faithful together over centuries?
Your brother – my great-grandfather –
his decision, the only reason, that I am alive today.
How can I complain? Yet, I am also conflicted,
knowing I should be grateful, to have even been born.
Despite the fact that I still yearn, to live
like my ancestors did in Bolechov.