A Gift and a Promise

I stop at Mr. Cohen’s bakery,

get a bagel and coffee for my grandfather.

I pause in the alley

to see all the names of the Calypso.

I take a napkin from the bag,

clean the dust out of the initials,

tiny patterns in the brick.

 

 

My grandfather is at his workbench

like always. Only this time,

instead of fixing something

he is sorting

through the treasure box.

Oy, good. You’re here.

Good morning, Grandpa.

You are cheery today. Good!

Lots to be happy about these days, right?

When something bad happens,

even an earthquake,

it’s a chance for a real miracle to happen.

 

 

I look at him.

We get to see what we are made of?

Exactly!

He sorts through the box,

a frame,

an old photo,

a silver chain

on one side,

the empty jar of clay from the Vltava River,

the knife,

more colored stones

on the other side.

 

 

Slowly he slides this pile

toward me.

Really? I ask.

Yes, he says. You are almost thirteen,

you should have some of these things,

but I have one condition.

Go back to synagogue.

Spend time with Rabbi Rosenthal.

 

 

I nod, take the knife from the sheath,

hold it against the light.

Then I hold the jar of clay;

it’s lighter than the jar

that held the clay

from the Dead Sea.

I weigh it in my hand.

It’s old, he begins, much older than anything else.

An artifact of our family,

something you should have now.

Do you think if I mix it with the clay

in the pool

I could make a golem?

There’s not enough clay in there to make a golem.

Besides, Etan, I’m not sure the golem

has a place in this world anymore.

Still, having this will always connect

you to the old world

like a bridge, to remind you

of where you came from

and who you are,

and that anything is possible.

I close my hand around it.

I’ve held on to it for too long, he says,

like the shape of a memory long gone by.

But now I know.

What, Grandpa?

He looks through the window,

down at his coffee,

back at the photograph of the Calypso.

He holds one of the photos from the box.

It’s the people.

They are what connect us.

The things we do

and remember together

that matter most.Not the clay.

And that’s when I have an idea,

and I know I have to tell Malia

right away.