The house is empty. I’m not sure what to do
and death is so much closer than it was—
The phone isn’t ringing
starting 5 AM
and every ten minutes or so thereafter
Even the delusions have stopped
having culminated in one final coup de gras
She ascended, ascended to Jerusalem.
I got calls from what they call the Holy Land
affirming her ascent
“She’s here! She said she’s here—“
her friend in Sefat affirmed
long distance
from the mystics’ town
above the Sea of Galilee
It’s quiet in the house. It’s palpable her absence.
But then there’s only stillness—
—still here to pay her bills
—still find them both a proper stone
—a million stills to figure out
—recite her tale to those who still don’t know
I’m alone for the first time in my life
with neither father nor mother
nor surrogate of any kind
It’s way too quiet here.
Quiet inside and outside—
Just quiet.
No demands and no delusions
No glaring fierceness in her words or silence
No words from him of guidance
She the poet of the wordless stare
Our Lady of Severity
Lest you forget
The Holocaust—
Seductive la Culevra de Aragon
La grande dame de Calle Sefardiyah
La reina in her castle
Villa Narcissus
it’s really called that
really really called that
and so is she
My mother’s gone and left me
—still here to pay the bills
—to answer phones
—to tell her lover she’s not home
—and this time she’s not lying.
And when the breezes reignite
And sounds return, and breathing
I’ll know she’s here, I’m not alone—
just more afraid of dying
You are not alone.
When the stillness stifles you, remember: you are not alone. M and R, and A and N, and I, and T, and T, and L and D and O and H and R and A and B and an alphabet of chosen family surround you and walk with you in this mysterious process of still-alive-ness.
When the breezes reignite, remember: you are not alone. You needn’t be more afraid of dying. Remember how quietly, how gracefully, how peacefully she slipped away from us. She slept slowly. She slept more slowly. She slept so slowly that the bleeping screens could tell no more clearly than we could whether she was still sleeping, and eventually she slipped into eternal sleep that looked the same but sounded—after the beeps were silenced—only slightly quieter. She was still warm, but she was gone, and her body lay there showing us the beauty of her ages, the slightness of her age, and the soft glow of a woman finally done struggling—against the Holocaust, against anyone forgetting, against her nearest and dearest, and finally with the frailness of her own body.
When sounds return, remember that once you avoided music and now you remember how much great music is out there. And you are not alone.
When breathing returns, remember that you put your own life and health and happiness on hold to look after hers, and now you can once again gasp your own gasps and pant your own pants as you tend once again to your own life and health and happiness. And you are not alone.
Or forget all that, but remember this:
You are not alone.
At her graveside, I spoke of the afternoon that she read me this poem and I asked “Whom?” She glared at me and stared at you, and you glared at me and stared at her, and then one of you mumbled something safe and the other of you went with it, and you were both rescued from the horrible awkwardness. But I had my answer; these words were to you:
I’m okay with the last two line. The rest, surely, was not for me.
You go on telling yourself that.