Fine, Thanks. You?

On the 308^th day in a row

that you’ve willed the train to quit

in the tunnel,

in the earth,

under brick and steel and flesh -

so you can bury yourself like a rat,

and be forgotten -

you begin to wonder who it is

you might blame.

—————-

You brood about it

in the forfeiter’s pose:

bent at the waist with hands on knees,

over the toilet on your lunch ½ hour,

open-lidded crying so your mascara won’t run:

the closest to neutral

that you might manage in the day.

—————-

Scratching home through the dark,

you mutter to your boots,

to the pavement,

to the thug who’s walking a little too close -

just daring him to try something,

so you can claw,

and scream,

and spit in his face –

his the body of your anger.

—————-

You snap to spite all,

in the only calls you get – from Mom,

who’s telling you to get more sleep,

call your old shrink in Ohio,

and pray for the best.

And - like a coward - you blame her,

you blame her,

you blame her –

and your tight-lipped father,

with his own inborn demons –

for breeding you – inadvertently – into this shit.

When my grandfather died in 5759, every bit of my naked, pre-adolescent heart ached to keep that year.  The idea of a new year - the first of many that he would not share with us - weakened me, sickened me, soured in my gut.  A new year seemed at best like a slight, and at worst like a blind, cruel shove in the direction of The Forgotten.  One that, it goes without saying, my hands felt forced to make - and one that has never truly come to be.

Now, as I approach this first new year without my grandmother, it is hard not to let these feelings creep back between my ribs…  I’ve never been very good with change: I’m a reluctant healer, an adamant pain-dweller, a relentless pessimist - the girl with all four limbs braced against the doorjamb while the whole house tries to push through her.

But, in the round, as-yet spotless face of 5772, my now post-adolescent (although still quite naked) heart knows that all is forgiven, so long as we try.  As the world forgives me for my shortcomings - for my reticence to heal, for the stubborn way I cling to my pain - I must forgive it for doing what is inevitable.  I must forgive it for simply. moving. forward. 

It is in my nature to feel loss, to anger, to suffer wrongs and injustices that sometimes aren’t entirely there.  And the world, in its infinite (albeit often tough) love, carries me to a new year again and again, quieting my complaints with the renewed chance to stubbornly remember, to relentlessly love, and to keep vibrant the spirits of those I miss so.

L’shana tova.