mid-December
- טבת
the
rain is here.
I'm
cold, but I've got a magical wool sweater
My
Nana Jo made it for my mom,
probably
on a cozy Christmas in the 70's
in
Southern Massachusetts, near the shore - unmistakably snowy Scituate
She
would have been cute and preppy, my mom.
Flaming
orange hair, sparkling blue eyes and totally freckled.
She'd
have to emulate the spunky pizazz required
of
the powerful matriarchs before us.
My
mother performed, quaking beneath the weight of harsh judgment,
in
the effort to achieve
a
lavish adoration those women may have given
regardless.
My
Nana knit the sweater by hand,
that
which would become
a
woolly namesake of unmistakably Scandinavian taste.
It
must of looked perfect next the Christmas tree
which
was a glowing fragrant winter idol,
adorned
in years of crafty love and expensive Macy's glass to show.
It
must have honed in all-that all-American flavor
coating
the Christmas dinner table.
Orange
squash upon china rimmed with green and gold,
wine
in crystal crossed etiquette,
and
a spiral, honey-roasted ham.
In
my Nana's house,
there
would have been a little wooden nativity
three
kings beneath date trees
and
a holy family huddled tight in a manger.
Jerusalem
would
have been a mystic dream tossed between tongues,
raised
on high in those cold New England churches.
But
not as cold as my Jerusalem apartment.
The
Decembers of yesteryears conceived enough change
until
a Jewish girl sat alone in Jesus' kingdome,
embraced
in the wool of her mothers.
I
levitate above these winding stone alleyways.
Through
doubt and self-hatred,
the
sweater wicks away the heavy downpour of tears drops,
which
I had ripped open from that sorrowful winter sky.
The
sweater hugs me with chesed and
the
heat of my heart,
normally
drained out into sewers
or
into the hands of handsome, wandering men
tingles
my arms and belly so that, maybe, one day,
I
could be strong enough to love again.
