There are empty spaces on my family tree.

The great aunts whom I know almost only by name—

Zelda, the redheaded one—the youngest, who could sing and play the guitar beautifully, who was born the same year as my father.

I know her better, I know more.

Zelda jumped off a train to save herself. it worked for a time, but not long enough for her to meet me.

Not long enough for me to know all the ways she is different from Chana, Golda and my grandmother—Estera.

Not long enough to for me to complain to my brother or my kids about those annoying things that Auntie Zelda, Doda Zelda, Ciocia Zelda does—

What would we have called her?

Not long enough to have children, who would have children—some who would be red-headed like her, some blond like my mother. Some that I would adore, some that would annoy me.

Cousins.

Cousins, who don’t exist.

How did my grandmother live with the pain?

A photo from my grandmother’s album. I don’t know who they are. Could they be her sisters?