Your fingers are warm
under the coldness of this stone
that once marked the final place
of someone's loved one,
that stood guard over time-
worn mounds and still-life flowers,
but now guard nothing,
criss-crossed granite toppled by hate.
But your fingers are warm
and I see your breath hang for a moment
in this almost-warm winter air,
and my breath puffs out to meet it.
This stone of soft edges and blurred
letters hides your face, but our breath meets.
I don't know if you wear a kippah
or a hijab, or nothing at all but hair; I can only
feel your fingers, warm, and see
your breath hang in frozen wonder, and mingle
with my own, as we lift, together
these stones to mark again the lives of my people.
Yitgadal v'yitkadash, shmei rabbah.
Exalted and hallowed be God's great name.
- I write, mostly to keep my head from exploding. It threatens to do that a lot. My blog is the pixelated version of all the voices in my head. I tend to dive into what connects me to God, my community, my family and my doubt. I do a lot of searching, not as much finding. I’m good with that. I have learned, finally, to live comfortably in the gray. In the meantime, I wrestle with God, and my doubt and my joy.