by Tamar Ashdot
Facebook reminds me daily
what has happened a year ago.
The name hurts to read
and churns my stomach with acid
that creeps up my throat.
Dovik Ashdot: “You’re becoming a true artist.”
A year has passed and
I beg for you, Dovik Ashdot to see my art.
I beg to tell you
you taught me dad, you taught me.
I create a LinkedIn account
and try to become an adult
in the middle of my grief.
I click past classmate names
and people I should probably connect with
for future references.
I reach Dovik Ashdot,
“student at the Italian Institute.”
A man who took Italian lessons so we could talk
in a language of love and art.
But the missiles kept falling
and you kept taking shelter in the stairwell,
and they said it was too dangerous to walk to class.
Instead you, Dovik Ashdot got pneumonia
and without me knowing
you began to give up.
The languages began to leave your body
flowing out of your arms in the hospital beds,
intravenous chemotherapy taking their place.
I click connect
hoping that maybe you, Dovik Ashdot will see
that I am a Scholar,
and an award winner.
Maybe Dovik Ashdot will see his daughter
trying to become an adult,
trying to understand death.
Navigating a world where your name is never gone,
a world where social media has not adjusted to your mortality.