Watching Her

It’s a rare thing, her
sleeping. Afraid to touch her,
he watches instead.

Never relaxes.
Fighting it. What will she miss?
Anything? Nothing?

Frowns, curled around a
pillow. He wants to kiss her.
But he won’t. He won’t.

Deprivation. Days
and days, leaving her thin and
wasted, so tired.

She won’t tell him why
she is afraid of sleep, what
nightmares wait for her.

She has secrets. He
knows. Broken eyes. Even in
her sleep, she is cloaked.

Fragile, he holds her,
crying into her pillow
asks, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.”

Why does she lie? Why?
Can’t fix a broken person
behind a smokescreen.

Touching her sadness,
its scent fills the room, sweet and
gone. He loves her. Fool.

Sleep, little girl, sleep.
It’ll be okay. I promise.
And he holds her. Tight.

Ars Amatoria, Remedia Amoris

I see her almost every day and nod, smiling. She nods back. When she notices. If she notices. She wears bike shorts and a teeny camisole. Watching her, her legs, the way they extend, toes pointed, as she rides. No hands. It’s a crime for a woman her age to wear bike shorts and look that good. It’s a crime to look that good. And not be mine.

I can see myself between those legs.

Her shirt plastered to her, to her breasts. I wonder if they’re real. I wonder what her sweat coated skin tastes like, run my tongue along her linea negra, her navel, up to her ribs, fragile bones I could crush. Licking the salt pooled under those breasts, while my fingers... Smoothing my hands over her, that crease where her legs meet that perfect heart-shaped ass, clench those thighs, just hard enough to see my fingerprints.

I can see myself squeezing those breasts.

I want her flushed and sweaty. Because of me. Not her bike. She reaches up, exposing a few inches of sun-kissed skin, just above the indent of her spine, dimples on either side. If she were younger, she’d have a tramp stamp there, across her lower back. But she doesn’t. I want to see her ride me until she collapses. After, I’ll bathe her and rub scented lotion into that skin.

I can see my name tattooed there, on her lower back.

Opalescent. Not shell, not marble, not metal, no, not cold at all. I touched her once. Brushed past her on the express line at Publix "where shopping is a pleasure." She was picking up the Sunday New York Times and a dozen donuts. It was early. The Times sells out by 8. "Oh. Excuse me. Did I trip you?" I grasp her elbow, hold it to steady her. "No, I’m fine, really I am. It’s okay." Oh god, her elbow, her arm so warm and solid. Warm, like a cat napping in a sunny spot under the window. Does she stretch like a cat, paws down, butt in the air, exposed, tail flicking back and forth?

I can see myself curled up with her, tail holding me to her.

Oohhh...
I would...
Oh I would bury my handsfaceself inside her. I would.
I want to make her eyes roll back, make her toes curl, make her throb and twitch and spasm
I want to make her cry out, make her breathless, dazed, exhausted, make her happy.
I want to make her happy.
I want to make her forget all the sad.
I want to make her forget all the befores
I want to make her mine.
If only she’d let me. If only.

What color are her eyes when she wakes up? When she cums? Sleeping beauty, I’ll love you awake, slow smile of pleasure at dreams become real. They will become real. Open your eyes to a living dream and let them be real. If you kissed me, brushed those lips against me, gave me a chance, one chance, just one chance, I know, I know you’d cry "yes, oh yes, oh yes." My mouth on yours, nibbling your lower lip, tongue slowly, so slowly entering your mouth, running it over your teeth, your palate, flicking against your tongue. Let me fall into an abyss I never want to climb out of. If only you’d let me.

I can see myself in her. I want to see myself in her.

Hair just long enough to wrap around my hand, pull her head back and stroke her windpipe with my thumbs. I could press. But I don’t. Push her down, feel that hot little mouth on me, oh yes. Taste me on her lips. After. I want her stretched out, naked. So naked. I want her insides, outsides, substantives, ephemerals. Feel that heart shaped ass on me, the curve of her spine. I’ll keep you in my pocket. Safe. I want you. I want everything about you.

And you don’t even know I exist.

Sleepless in Orlando

Tired, so tired. Pacing the halls, room by room, late night train whistles.
Haven’t slept in... I don’t know how long. But long.
I miss it.
Not sleep. Oh well yes, I guess that too. But not so much as you.
Sleeping with you. No, not ‘sleeping with you’
(although I do miss that, I’d be lying if I denied it and I never lie. Not about that, anyway.)
but sleeping, with my ‘come closer, you are such a good fit to me.’
Sleeping with my safe haven.
I could hold you touch you be near you all night and sleep. You, by me.
It’s so easy for some people. Not for me.
Oh, nothing is ever easy for me.
To be with others? all tangled limbs and then to sleep?
Not me.
Why does it have to be so hard? Why?
I’m not a baby, awkward, cold. So why?
Why do I miss your too-warm substance next to me?
Why do I wake up wishing it was you next to me?
Why do I want to wake up with our fluids smeared on my thighs?
Why do I want to kiss your eyes open, nuzzle you, crawl under you and hide?
Why does everyone else feel so wrong?

Really Bad Poetry and Getting Worse Every Day-6th revision

My beloved, with great precision in wording, remitted to me a missive
I prayed it was to give me a decision and it be neither dismissive nor derisive.
Holding that page he had touched, reading it, again, hoping against hope, but
my heart, my soul, my infinite infinitesimal being, all those he had cut
It was sincerely antithetical to me, all the quick and the sloe
was I merely parenthetical? Nothing? I have nowhere to go
but up. O! I cannot bear it. I am rent from inside out. Down is so very very far.
The queen of hearts cries, Off with her head, rip out her soul. The elevator car
stops at the bottom, at the open maw of the shaft.
Crawling out, I climb aboard the terrible, waiting raft,
Holding my eroded dreams in my trembling hands. On a sea of molasses, we drift away
Those dreams drip from my fingers as tears drip from my eyes. O! horrid selfsame day.
I, upon my raft, float along the bubbling, rancid, foul-smelling Styx.
Care I a whit or a ha-penny? Nay. It is a far better thing I do. My life is nix.
I am a rotting corpse now, you see
It’s the only way. It’s what had to be
because my beloved, oh my darling, my best and only beloved sent me a letter.
And the letter was ‘no.’

And A Happy New Year

i don't believe in prefacing my work. each piece stands or falls on its own. but its been a roller coaster week, much emotional turmoil, culminating in yet another instance of verbal abuse. so, in honor of my birthday, anniversary and a tip of the glass to pandora's box , i present.....

“Un cerveza, por favor.” Just one little beer, how could it hurt, hurt any more than she did already? She rubbed her abdomen, its internal soreness aggravated by its external sunburn.

“One beer, miss, with lime? Corona, Dos Equis or Especiale?”

“Especiale con cal, por favor.” That’s so funny, she thought. La gringa se habla espanol and el mejicano speaks English. Without an accent, too. What a twisted world. She gazed out at the plaza, her eyes protected from the glare by her “Jackie O” style sunglasses.

The midday sun was fierce, white-hot, leaching the bright embroidered dresses, serapes, ponchos and oversized sombreros of their color. The gray adobe landscape misted before her, the individual pieces melted into an uneven dust covered lump. It looked to her like a raisin studded Christmas pudding in a snow of confectioners sugar, the sweet sugar hiding the alcohol soaked evil of the dessert.

A Christmas pudding I’ll never taste again, god willing, stuck here in taco and tequilla land. She lifted the beer, surprised to find it empty.

“Un mas, por favor,” she called to the waiter.

“Yes, miss, and will you be dining with us this afternoon?”

“Si, un taco de aquacate con crema y un carne de puerco con chile verde.”

“Thank you, miss, I’ll bring your beer and your lunch will be ready shortly.”

The plaza entertainers processed through the courtyard, a troupe of eight men and women in fake, polyester Aztec garb, accompanied by three midgets in loincloths and body paint. The midgets did a series of acrobatic tricks on a trampoline, while the troupe performed a desultory sword and sun worship dance. It was a hackneyed show, suitable to the heat and lack of an audience.

She sighed again, removed her sunglasses and rubbed at her eyes with a twisted napkin. The green and purple bruises were stark against her tanned face. No, I won’t have any Christmas pudding this year, will I, she thought to herself, and a happy fucking New Year, too.

Misadventures of the Shoes: Charity Brawl

We’re going out! Our little girl is taking us out! About effing time, too. We were born to be wild. That is our whole entire raison d’etre.

What is the point of having ‘fuck me’ pumps if you’re not going out hunting? Or at least going out SOMETHING?

Okay, serious business now. The dress.

No. Not that one. Not that one either. No. Oh puh-leze.

Yes, we understand you want to wear this one. We KNOW you were thinking of this dress when you brought us home, we do. How? We’re the shoes, we know EVERYTHING. Seriously, not this one.

Yes, we know. Yes, you do look great in it. Yes, you do have a body to die for. Yes, it does make men want you and women want to be you.

BUT NOT TONIGHT

WEAR THE OTHER DRESS

TRUST US.

The shoes know. Isn’t that why you brought us home? It’s okay.

Tonight, you are going to look classy, not trashy. You have people to impress. Most of all, you have yourself to impress. Classy, not trashy.

Go on, zip it up. Much better. Don’t you feel proud now? You know it’s the right thing to do. That was the dress when it doesn’t matter. This is the dress for courage. Stand tall, lttle girl.

We’ll make sure our little girl has a good time. We know you haven’t been to a party in forever and you’ve never been to a party alone. Not merely unescorted, but totally alone. You don’t know a single person here. It’s okay. That’s why we’re here. The shoes will be your escorts for the evening, madam.

We’ll make sure you have a good time and you get whatever you want.

Dance, little girl, dance.

Don’t worry, you just dance by yourself. Anybody looks askance, reflection on them, not on you. You just have your own good time. Conga line? What do you think? Limbo was great, loved that, but conga? Oh why not.

"Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga. I know you can't control yourself any longer."

WTF?????

Did that bitch do what we think she did?

No. Can’t be.

"Feel the fire of desire as you dance the night away. 'Cos tonight we're gonna party til we see the break of day."

She did it again. Okay, little girl, you going to handle this or are we going to do it?

"Excuse me. You put your hands on my waist and touched my breasts. You put your hands on my hips and grabbed my ass. If you don’t keep your carpet-munching hands to yourself, I’m going to take you down. You put hands on me like a guy, you get treated like a guy. Do NOT touch me."

Our turn.

"OOPS! Did I stomp you foot? I am SO sorry." Sorry our instep! We feel great!

"I know you can't control yourself any longer. Feel the rhythm of the music getting strongerDon't you fight it till you've tried it. Do the conga beat. Come on, shake your body baby, do the conga."

You know, there’s nothing like going to a charity ball, trying to do a mitzvah and having it morph into a charity brawl.

Take us home, beautiful. Tomorrow is another day.

Blue Shift

Dusty whistle. Who is awake to hear?
It echoes your words.
Glass cold against my cheek,
eyes closed, even the crescent moon is too much.
I kneel at the window as it fades.
It fades.

Your question touches me.
It hovers, acrid smoke tendrils in the dark
expectant, hopeful, open. Time.
Can’t lie at four a.m. can’t lie in the here, after.

I slide to the floor, crawl
heavy gardenia air casting faint shadows on the windowsill
a trail of crumbs behind me
Listening.
Not answering.

Not answering is also an answer.
Feeling your eyes on my back,
hope fades, more smoke, sighs. You turn, speak to the wall,
"How can you and I be we if you talk to the moon?
And not to me, not ever to me?"
I shiver, feeling your words etched into my flesh.
"How can you and I be we?"

The whistle blows, blue shift to nothing. I rise,
follow the trail of tears back, mercury drops,
climb onto this oasis we’ve created. Close the breech.
Pressed against your back, head on your shoulder, I speak to your neck
to that place where the barber always misses a few strands,
"No lies. Not with you."
Interlocking guardrail lowers around us as you take my hand in yours
pull it to your mouth and kiss my pearl ridged fingerprints,
rough against your teeth.

"Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow and tomorrow, listen for the train with me."

Pyrite

I wanted to write about the gold. I did. The words wouldn't come. They stayed locked away just as the gold was locked away. It was in the vault so it would be safe from intruders and thieves. Rainy day safe. Yes.

A thief can come in many guises.

A thief can wear a hockey mask or stocking cap or pantihose to disguise his face. Or a thief can hide behind the face he wears every day. Hide in plain sight and, if asked why, will produce some sort of psychopathological excuse which the hearer can accept or reject. In any event, the thief has done what thieves do and it is up to the victim to accept or reject.

Love the sinner, hate the sin?

And when the sinner hates you? Despises you enough to steal and despises you even more for acting as if that theft was acceptable behavior? What then? Hate the sinner, love the sin? Does that work any better, feel any righter in my gut? No.

Hate the victim, hate the sinner, hate the sin. Yes. Because we all get what we deserve, I get what I deserve. The karma of the universe has its own balance that I am too small to see or comprehend, but there is balance nonetheless.

I am Stalin, Hitler, Genghis Khan, Vlad the Impaler, Papa Doc and Baby Doc, succubus, tsunami, the iceberg that hit the Titanic, the Bartholomew's Day Massacre, blood libel, jihad. I am every evil that was or will be. I am weak. I am a coward. And I will sit here and wait for whatever happens next.

Homage to Hemingway

Hemingway is credited with writing the shortest short story ever, "For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn." Every time I read, hear that, I get a chill. Chill? Oh, tell the truth. You don't get a chill, you are ruptured, torn. Your guts are pulled out, displayed, stabbed over and over and over with a dull, jagged knife. No quick clean cut, too simple. This is fluttery edges that never realign, never heal. They keloid, ugly scars like bloated leaches.

Tell the truth for once about how you feel. Me? Tell the truth? You talking to me? The great liar, the greatest liar denier crier ever born? The truth. Huh. What an alien concept. Truthful Robyn, oxymoron.

Fine.

But I don't have to. It's all written down and out in my own illegible cursed cursive that even I find hard to read at times. Especially when the paper is wrinkled, a testament to tears, to what is missing. Here's to you, tears! To you tears. Here's to u-tear-us. Here's to a uterus with scarred walls, too many ridges for a placenta to attach. Here's to a uterus that shakes free whatever it decides has no place within. Here's to you.

You tear us limb from limb and push us out bit by bit, drip drip drip. Days and night, drip drip drip, slow seepage of blood and amniotic fluid as you proceed on your sickening, funereal mission, slowly expelling your dead, one scoop at a time.

Hand me a shovel, let me bury it once and for all. Rapid shoveling, no more of these individual scoops. Weeks, or does it just feel like weeks, until the blessed doctors, oh blessed 100, 99, 98, 97, 96 going under, that sweetness, until they finish the job.

Can't even finish expelling your own dead, you useless u-tear-us. A vestigial organ, a void, no point to having you if you can't do what you are meant to do. 95, 94, 93 and under. Let it be over, let it be over once and for all.

It is written.

Spike.

Eagle.

Drummer.

And Lafite. Grenoble. Clover. All here, the empty books. The oh-so-empty books.

"For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn." Six words.

"Freecycle: Pregnancy diaries. 3/4 empty." Five words.

Jeff and Erica

It was Jeff's birthday the other day. And Erica's yahrzeit. She did not die on his birthday, no. She died the next day. Or that night, but not on his birthday. No.

It was a strange and terrible year, even as years go, following another strange and terrible year, a whole series in strange and terrible years. I kept my funeral shoes near the door. It seemed too much trouble to throw them in the closet when I'd only have to dig them out again a few days later. Timmy and I discussed snubbing each other. We were tired of running into each other in funeral chapels, cemeteries, wakes, shiva calls. Before that year, we were used to two or three years passing with only a phone call or christmas card. But that year? Never more than ten weeks without seeing each other.

Never more than ten.

I went to a lot of funerals that year, the year before I got married, moving guests from the "yes I will attend" column to the "deceased" column. Perhaps the wedding, wearing my dead father's necklace, my dead mother's scarf, Jeff's penny in my shoe, was a funeral of sorts, too, a funeral pickled on champagne and ice floes instead of whiskey and ice. Perhaps.

We all thought Jeff would be the last funeral. Who was left to die?

I, the bad sister-in-law, came back from Tibet to a treasure trove of mourning. My mother's death money sent me there, away from it all, and I came back a month later, spinning my prayer wheels, to find four more coffins waiting for me. Yes I'd sit and spin my prayer wheels, wood and ivory, with my little prayers tucked inside, sending them straight to heaven, straight to god. Every prayer was "Enough."

If I lined up all the coffins head to toe, head to toe, head to toe, counted the miles, I would be a fool. There was no relief that year. It was SLAM SLAM SLAM, body shots, gut shots, huge gaping holes of grief shots.

Still, there was nothing to do about it, except make whatever plans seemed to go with or against whatever grain there was and I don't know I just did and didn't think. Or I'd think and turn away from it. Twenty years later and I don't know that, that it IS twenty years later. To me it isn't, certainly not. When I let myself feel, let myself in, it is now.

The dragons have sharp claws, sharper than a serpent tooth, especially from the inside trying to get out. Dragons in full bloom that year, slowly circling the campground, waiting to pounce on the person that inadvertently? with audacity? leaves the confines of safe haven. They wait. Dragons can wait forever, they have no concept of time.

Dragons only exist in me. They aren't real. Everyone knows dragons are just more make-believe. Right? Right?

Jeff's memorial service was on his 30th birthday. That was his short range goal, to be thirty. And his long term goal? Thirty-five. This man, who had the courage to climb out of a bottle, climb out of the drug haze, this man who saved lives as easily as he snapped his fingers, this man who was truly beautiful, all he wanted was to be thirty.

Erica did not have a good day at the service. She'd spent the past sixteen months nursing her child, her firstborn, through illness after illness, as the ravening dragon inside him chewed his liver, his intestines, his heart, his brain. I stayed with her and we counted sugar dots. We even had the fancy ones with little flowers on them. Sugar dots and sugar cubes are a tradition in my family, a funeral tradition. I still have Jeff's sugar dots, a few. But we used most of them at Erica's funeral. Two days later.

Jeffrey Jan 17, 1958 to Oct 9, 1987.

Erica ???? to Jan 18, 1988.

Backstory

“I’ll loan you a sweater.”

“What sweater of yours could possibly fit me?’

“It’s cold out. I’ll find one.” She walked into the closet, stood there, looking at the piles of clothes. So many clothes...

“Oh what, you’re going to give me one of your husband's?” He sniffs, wrinkles his nose. “It smells like mothballs in here.”

“Thank you, yeah I know. No, that would be rude. Or vulgar. Or both. No, one of mine.” Flicking through the pile, she pulls out an old fisherman sweater, hands it to him. He puts it back on the shelf.

“Love, there is no sweater of yours,” moving behind her, against her, he reached around to hold her breasts. Pulled her back against him, kissed her neck. One arm now tight around her, the other slowly moved over her abdomen, back and forth, lower, until he cupped her pudenda with his hand. Rocking his hand on her, he squeezed gently. “that could ever fit me. Besides,I don’t need a sweater.” Kissing her neck, the space behind her ear, he could feel her body getting warmer. The closet filled with her scent. “I'm warm enough. I don’t need a sweater.”

“Oh god...” She arched her back slightly, shaking, feeling him against her.

“Hmm? Yes?” Moving behind her, he knelt, licked her thighs, her cleft. Stood up, pressing against her. He whispered, “I don’t need a sweater, I’m warm, I’m warm all over. You are so, so hot on me. You are so boiling on me,” as he moved inside her.

“Oh god,” she grasped the shelf, her torso almost parallel to the floor.

“I don’t need a sweater...OH GOD!”

“It’s cold out. It really is. You’re going to freeze. Here, take it already. It's the biggest one I have.”

“I look ridiculous.” Holding out his arms, the sleeves stop four inches above his wrist.

“Well, still, it has to be better than not. I don't have anything longer. The rest of it’s not too bad.” She looks at him. Sighs, shaking her head. “It’s just really short on you.”

“You’re really short on me. On the inside, too.” He picks her up, easily. She wraps her legs around him, twines them around his thighs.

“Stop, c’mon. You’re going to be so late.” She flexed her leg muscles, rubbing herself on him. “You really have to go. I have to finish my project, too.” She took a deep breath, sighed. The house smelled different when he was here. It smelled full.

“Don’t have time? You sure? You’re dripping on me, we’re dripping on me.”

She pushes the sweater up, his warm hairless flesh touching hers. She couldn’t stop touching him. Even across a room, she could feel him on her; feel the air rippling on her when he walked past. She loved the texture of his skin, little bumps and ridges, his bones barely visible. One arm around him, her hand on his lower back, the other reached up to pull his face to hers. His well-worn 501s were soft on her legs, the buttons straining against her.

Lips moving on hers, “Yes? You want? Let me take my pants off, sweetheart.”

“No, really. You have to go, I’m just playing.”

“You know how much I love you?”

“I love you more because I’m older.”

“I love you more because I’m bigger.”

“I love you more because...because I’m more compact so it’s intensified.”

“What, you’re a reduction?” He laughed, almost dropping her.

“Yeah, I like that. I’m a reduction. You’ve boiled me away leaving the most intense flavor and aroma behind. Now you can pour me over chicken or use me to make a delicious gravy.” She unwrapped herself, leaned against the wall, arms crossed, laughing.

“Stay there.” He put his foot between hers, pushed them apart. Got down on his knees and kissed her. “Yes, a reduction. Essence of you with more intense flavor and aroma. You are so addictive. If I could bottle you, I would be a rich man. “

”You really have to, really have to, really... Oh! You have to go, you’re already late.” She parted her legs a bit more. “You are going to be so late.”

“Mmph. Like I care? I’m late, I’ll be later.”

He returned the sweater three weeks later. When he said goodbye.

where has robyn been? she has NOT been to london to visit the queen. although, now that you mention it....

i have been consumed with my day job and all that entails
(entails? in re my day job, entrails might be more apropos!)
and haven't had TIIIIIMMMMMEEEEE to post.
uh huh.
a person has time for whatever it is they deem time worthy.
yes, i've been writing. yes, i've been editing.
no, the work is not for here.
IF i set up a secondary blog, i will include the link (DUH!)
in the meantime, another 72 hours and i'll be back.
perhaps sooner.
threat?
promise?

hold onto your seats, it's going to be a bumpy night!

robyn

Sweater

It's been a long time since she needed winter clothes, but life has been so cold lately that even in the heat she wears long sleeves. Or maybe its just to hide her arms, cover the scars. She places the shirts on the shelf, turns to take the next pile out of the box. She inhales sharply, lets the air out with a sigh. She grabs the back of a chair and steadies herself.

Where did that come from? How in god's good name did that end up here? Whatever possessed me? I've moved so many times since then. At least a dozen times in the past year alone. From bedsit to short stay to extended stay to here, finally, a place that I can call my own and now this? WTF?

A sweater.

A fisherman sweater.

An old fisherman sweater of hers that he wore once.

Once.

Over twenty years ago.

It still smells of him.

She puts her hand on the sweater, still in the box and strokes it with her fingertips. Kisses her fingers, as if they had just touched the Torah, the holy book. She picks up the sweater so carefully, holds it to her cheek and closes her eyes. Leaning against the wall, time stops.

It still smells of him, of testosterone musk, faint tang of male. She swallows, hard. The lump in her throat makes it hard to breathe, hard to think.

It still smells of him. And she is back there, in that place, with him.

Oh god.

To be back there, back then.

Rubbing her face on it, inhaling him, feeling him, the texture of him on her skin, she shudders, remembering it all. Thinks, I can feel you, taste you, taste of your skin, your nicotine scented tongue against mine. I can feel you in me.

Oh god, I remember.

She slips her arms into that sweater he wore once and made his own. She pulls it down over her face, her neck. She smooths the soft cotton on her breasts that he touched, held, loved so long ago, so once upon a time, pulls the sweater all the way down to her hips. Puts her hands on her hips the way he held her, ground her into him.

Her hands trace the cables, in out, in out, in out. The yarn loops back upon itself. Time loops back upon itself.

She is back there.

She slides down the wall, only thing holding her up all this time, to the floor. Wraps her arms, her warm sweatered arms around her knees and buries her face in them.

She breathes him in, filling her lungs.

So long ago. Today. Now.


Nota Bene: In Judaism, there are specific rituals involved with reading from the Torah, the Old Testament. You are called to the bimah, the dais, and wrapped in a tallis, prayer shawl, recite a prayer thanking god for giving us the Torah (QED). The Torah is unfurled to the week's reading. Using a point (yad) or wrapping your finger in the tallis, you read. You do NOT touch the Torah. It is holy, not to be defiled by human contact. When you have finished reading, you recite a prayer again thanking god for the gift of Torah and for truth which grows in us by reading Torah (QFD). The Torah is then closed and dressed in an embroidered covering (mantle), a silver medallion (breastplate) is hung in the front and the finials (rimonim) are put on top of the protruding rollers. The Torah is carried through the synagogue. As it passes, the congregation touches the mantle or breastplate of the Torah with a prayer book or tallis wrapped hand. You then kiss the book or tallis. You kiss AFTER it touches, not before. Because human flesh, and especially the human mouth (te geulle) are unclean, profane and cannot come in contact with the sacred, the holy of holies.
She touches the sweater and then kisses her fingers. His body was her Torah, the sweater his mantle. She cannot touch him, but she can touch what once covered him.

http://scheinerman.net/judaism/synagogue/torah.html

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Cemetery

I was thinking about my brother this morning. Yes, I realize I think about him every morning (I think about you too, Big Brother, but I do not discuss you here.) but a favorite incident has been tickling my brain the past few days. David was a character. We all have slightly twisted senses of humor, ways of dealing with our past that some may find a bit off-setting.

We have more dead than many people of our generation. Well, perhaps not now, not now that I am a little old lady, much closer to my demise, so close I can smell the cordite and treacle, than I am to my beginning, but when we were in our twenties, it seemed we were the only two who had more relatives in Wellwood Cemetery than in our phone book.

Every time ten people in my phone book die, I replace my phone book.

I have had many phone books.

I don't keep a physical phone book any longer. That is another story.

So, David and I would often talk of our dead, our ghosts, speak of them and to them. I still do. He still does. We had a nice little chat yesterday morning. He agreed that the new purple sheets were a really nice shade of purple and reminded me to wash them before first use. And I better watch out, the last time I had purple sheets, I was five years old and ended up head to toe purple hives. I replied, these are sheets, not sulfa drugs. Which also turn me purple, FYI. As do other medications, but not penicillin. I am such an old fashioned old lady. Give me a poultice of moldy bread, that'll fix me right up, good as new. But I digress.

Back to David, who was also allergic to sulfa drugs but took large dosages of them during the week before he died, blood pouring out of every orifice in his body, the morning after they would not let me see him, his visitor passes already in use, his phone line dead. I stood there in the hospital lobby, so desperate to go upstairs, making such a scene, hoping they would have rachmunis on me. They threatened to have me arrested, sent me out into the night.

The doctor called me at 6:15 the next morning.

I was already awake, waiting.

I was already awake, waiting when my mother called to say that my dad had died.

I was already awake, waiting when my uncle called to say that my mom had died.

I was already awake, waiting when Kay called to say Richie had died.

Is that why I never sleep?

Am I always waiting for the phone to ring?

Alright, Robyn, you wanted to tell a tale, stop staring at the computer screen. The flickering diodes hold no answers, no insights. The warmth and pressure of the laptop on my thighs will have to suffice as an answer, a comfort. It is the closest I get to losing myself in physical pleasure, the solace, my drug of choice to make it all go away for a while. It is the closest I get to not being alone.

David was widowed. After a while, he dated. He would meet men in bars or at clubs or wherever and decide whether or not they were worthy of going home with him. When the first throes of mourning had passed, the random faceless fucking of shloshim, he resumed his selective tendencies and decided to pursue a relationship. After a third or fourth or fifth date, he'd determine whether or not to introduce the person to his family.

"I want you to meet my family."

"Wow, I am honored. Great. When?"

"Now is as good a time as any."

The person hopped on the back of David's bike and wrapped his arms around David, thinking, oh wow, I am going to meet Kid Sister and Most Amazing Niece and maybe even Long Suffering Brother in Law. This is great, I must really rate.

And they took off. Down Eastern Parkway, Linden Blvd, onto the Southern State they'd fly, exceding whatever the posted speed limit was (you thought I was the only one who exceeds the speed limit? Daddy and David were each ticketed at over 100 mph.) until they turned in at the gates of Wellwood. David would continue, much slower, pulling up in front of our parents' tombstones.

"XYZ, I'd like you to meet my parents. Mom, Dad, this is XYZ. Okay, Grandma and Aunt Ettie are right over here and then I'll introduce you to Jeff and Erica. And Cousin Irving, he's in the front. Oh. You thought I was going to introduce you to Kid Sister? Maybe later."

Depending on whether the person politely introduced himself to the granite markers, helped trim the bushes, laid pebbles on the base of each grave, how the person responded to David's dead determined whether he would get to meet David's living.

Not a bad way of winnowing the wheat from the chaff.

Maybe one day I'll tell you about David and Vita's list of repairs.

Today

Today, this morning, I made biscuits.