For years my father served
the Jewish families of Far Rockaway
from behind the counter
of his little butcher shop.
His large following
traveled miles
for ritually proper meat,
ladies first previewing
the small outer window display,
then entering the cold store
to order, bargain, schmooze.
He glided with tango grace
on the sawdust-covered floor,
smiling, cajoling, humoring,
slicing, weighing, wrapping,
carrying large slabs of meat
in muscular forearms
from the store’s rear
walk-in refrigerator.
Cap on his head,
cigarette never far away,
pencil behind his ear,
bill added on
brown paper bag.
Thursday stretched
from well before dawn,
until late in the evening.
After Shabbat dinner
he collapsed
and slept enough that night
for the whole week.
He worked so very hard,
scratched out a living,
was cheated by his partner.
Devastated, he
sold the store, but
never lost his spirit.
Occasionally I delivered orders,
or just helped out.
When I started college,
the store supplied
my chemistry lab attire,
a long butcher’s coat.
New, pristinely white,
untouched by calf blood,
it served me well
while mixing reagents
and precipitating salts.
When accepted to
medical school
with scholarship,
I was headlined:
“Butcher’s Boy Makes Good.”
My father beamed;
I liked the alliteration;
my friends thought it hilarious.
But they never looked inside
this loving butcher whose
youth far from Rockaway’s shore
contained enough pain
to fill fifty lives,
a hurtful montage of
pogrom, orphanhood,
hunger, poverty, betrayal,
care of two young sisters,
travel to foreign lands.
A forgiving butcher,
gentle and wise,
wearing his scars
but not consumed by them,
living his immigrant dream
when his only son was called doctor.
I was proud to be this butcher’s boy.