I leave candles lit sometimes when I leave the house. For hours, in their votive on my altar. I am jogging towards Morris St. It will take me five minutes and I am suddenly awake. Not everyone is asleep. I see two men walking up a side street as I run past. Don’t stop. I leave candles burning overnight. I leave candles on every wooden surface and then I go about my day. I know the names of a few of my ancestors and I repeat them to myself: Theresa Panko. I run faster and I am aware suddenly that the edges of the city are closing in. We are three days in and I am not invulnerable or wearing armor. There is ice in some places. Theresa Panko. I don’t think about Hungary like I should or what was done to us. I almost slip on a patch but I run faster and I see the sign for Mirch st. and nothing has fallen out of my pocket and I feel sorry for the strange man but then I see the empty street and red sedan.
“Dear God,” I whisper. “Give me all the luck we lost.”
Theresa Panko, surrendered her daughter to an orphanage in Hungary and opened up a tavern in Passaic, New Jersey. Give me your guile.
I am in the car with the door closed in silence, with the door locked, haven’t started it or decided anything in silence. Finally, I’m sobbing.

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