Every year
the chorus on
the
other side
of the veil
grows.
Numb to the
oldest members’
tenor-alto-soprano,
their buzzes
are a gentle
sting at the base of my spine.
The newest
addition, an off-key tenor,
with raucous
glee,
chants his
own version
of that
ancient hymn.
His fingers
caress my scars, pausing
against the
shadowed fractures of my ribs,
as they
climb,
until they
cradle my naked skull.
He removes
his kippah,
the one I
made him
for some
long-forgotten event,
puts it on
me
to keep me
warm.
The only
voice I hear is mine,
chanting the
kaddish
as I light
the candles,
adding one.
