That’s the golem, Etan.
And some of that,
just the tiniest bit,
is in here.
I remember the stories
about the golem
from Hebrew school,
but I never thought it might be real.
This is the last of the clay
taken from the Vltava River
by your ancestor,
the Maharal himself.
I want to ask him what the Maharal is,
but I can’t find the words.
He holds the jar out to me.
It’s much heavier than I thought,
and my hands almost fail beneath its weight.
It’s the clay of the golem;
it once made a terrible monster
that defended the Jewish people
in their time of greatest need.
I look up, centering the jar in my hands.
It’s all our family has left.
The rest is hidden
somewhere far across the sea.
It’s almost too much.
I’ve always believed my grandfather’s stories,
but ancient magic?
My grandfather laughs. There’s not much left.
Your father, he …
Well. That’s a story for a different time.
The spirit of the golem
is somewhere else,
but this clay comes
from ancient earth
and ancient waters.
From a world
that no longer fits
with this one.
I look at the other jar;
he lifts it up, staring at it
for a long time.
This is a different kind of clay
from the Dead Sea.
But before he can say more,
my father comes through the door,
blue flannel shirt tied around his waist,
his car keys in one hand,
his face covered in grime.
You ready? he says. What’s all this?
I watch his eyes move from photo to jar to trinket
and his eyes get bigger.
He’s seen this before.
I hold up the knife,
but my father grabs it.
No way, Pop.
Maybe when he’s thirteen.
There’s silence, and then
a breath.
All right, then. My grandfather smiles.
See you tomorrow, Etan.