"Exodus"
by Paloma
She washed the cup, three times,
an anniversary gift…white
with pale lilacs,
inattentive to time
"Why did
you go?"…plaintive….groping…"I've never been strong"
"Could I
have said…explained it better?"
A slammed door.
Words at the kitchen table…
round and round in her
mind….
like the carousel at Coney
Island,
his favorite as a child.
"Bubeleh….she groaned…my son….my life…"
Hands dried on the frayed
towel,
the yellow apron back on the
hook.
Rituals…a comfort….her
solace..
a balm that kept her sane
Loss had broken in…robbed
her
a second time
Faded slippers up the
stairs,
his mezuzah, a guard stationed at his door,
so proud at his Bar Mitzvah
"Ma, listen,…." Hebrew prayers, letter
perfect
Her delicate, trembling fingers…from lips….to mezuzah
In his room, no need for light…his father's photograph…
"You are
your father's son" same image, hearty disposition,
Tan leather jacket, on the bureau, released maleness….
father to son,
A shelf rich with model
cars, red, shiny..
"Ma, someday,
I'll have a red car…. a fast
car….I'll drive you to Shabbat services!"
Tender…tightness dissolved
from her eyes,
Innocent,
"I could
not protect you"
An invitation, a schoolmate,
expectant at the
window, then the phone call
"What are
we teaching our children?"
"It's
o.k., Ma"
Don't lie to me..I know you…since your first kick
An unruly head bowed,
Shame? Disappointment?
Will you follow my son to
California?
In the corner, a wooden rocker,
relic from
Prague…colickly….soothing him….at her breast…safe
Now all stripped away…he is
defeated
"What is
it children say?…Sticks and stones may
break my bones, but words will never hurt me"
"Don't
touch me! I want my dad!"
She crumbled in the chair..a
veined fist…. hard against her chest..
anguish….with every
gasp....her head….memories…
entombed in her hands.
Bubbe's handmade quilt on
the floor,
now tucked under the
adolescent chin..
a hushed kiss…"Forgive me…Dovid….how long since
she had called him by that affectionate name?…too long…. too late…my precious Dovid"
Outside his door..
delirious….forehead against
the metal tradition of her nation…
desperate for hope from the
parchment.: "Hear, O Israel:
The LORD our God, the LORD is
one. Love the LORD your God with all
your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength
"Please…I
need to know…"
A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping,
Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because her children are no more
A whimper…a voice..
"He is in the Palm of My Hand, Rachel"
Steadying herself…her bones
revived..
a spring welling up in a dry
landscape..
The door to her bedroom
closes.