My grandfather sits down heavily in his chair.
I am getting older, Etan.
All of us who came
on that voyage are getting older.
He rests his heavy hand on his chest
like he usually does when the coughing is bad.
I want to be here with you
through this hard time.
I notice that he isn’t coughing
right now. His voice smooth, clear.
This ancient clay
is from the Dead Sea,
Etan, it can heal.
In the silence I feel my arm where the cut was.
Yes, a few drops of clay
may bring wholeness into your body.
I have to ask him:
So you mean you won’t have to cough anymore?
Etan, he says,
until today, I resisted using it.
He looks down,
and I see tears, his face red.
I tried it before on someone else,
and for a little while it was a miracle.
I look at him. Grandma? I say softly.
Yes, but it lasted only a short time,
and when it didn’t last,
I think it was the hardest
on your father.
Since then, he’s had
a hard time trusting
his faith. I don’t like it,
but I understand.
The change is real—
we transform one way or another—
but it is not always permanent, Etan.
Her pain returned.
She seemed at peace, but I was not.
I swore from then on to try to be thankful for what I had,
to remember the words of the Talmud.
The one to whom the miracle is happening does not recognize the miracle.
I hoped too much in the clay.
I forgot the greater power,
the true miracle
is in the way we are made to be who we are.
But it’s getting worse for me,
my coughing, so here I am again
and just maybe this might heal my cough,
to make me strong for a little while longer.
He looks tired
holding the jar in his hands.
I put my arms
around his
broad shoulders
and whisper,
Todah, Grandpa. Thank you.