For Jenny, as life goes on...

First: the names
(I am always remembering these)
“Jenny”, same as my dear friend in England with whom I shared university days and still, fifty-eight years on, we laugh and tell stories together. “Kilian”, with the recognizable Armenian final three letters, recalling my mother’s violin teacher, and the Chilingirian string quartet, and our dear friends the Mnatziganians, of Jerusalem.
Names making memories and colours and forming threads that spin onwards...

Then, our language: not exactly the same dialect, and I had to learn your specialist terminology.
You were my teacher, opening ways, revealing shapes, colours and patterns spreading riches about my head (!)

In turn, I walked in front of you, picking out the path
the solitary steps of mourning
for the lost dream
through the long dreary days
finding guide marks
exchanging engraved pebbles
or perhaps a feather

We have come a long way
sharing the unending reciprocity of thanks
sweetened with salt tears

Today, watching our children, grown in beauty
we stagger word-drunk
bewildered that this could come from such despair
The names shout
Sixty-five years, Hurrah!

(With much love, always! from Wendie, at seventy-five)