My grandfather wipes the board one last time,
sets the cloth down.
Go lock the door. Let me show you something.
He reaches into the box, pulls out the two
small jars the size of softballs,
with Hebrew letters I still can’t read.
He lifts the jar that held
the clay for the golem,
looks at it, and sets it aside.
He says a prayer,
lights a short candle
melted into an old plate,
then reaches for the other jar.
What is that? I ask.
Shhhh, he whispers.
Watch.
He slowly unlatches
the old metal lock
but starts coughing and his hands shake.
I walk toward him, but he stops me,
then with all his might, he dips two fingers inside.
He stops coughing, looks at me.
Come here.
The flame of the candle
is bright, burning brighter,
flickering wild
in wind that isn’t there.
He reaches out for my arm,
clutches me near the scratch
and a little blood oozes out.
Grandpa, I say, because
his grip is so strong and his face looks different,
younger, like a man from a different time.
Etan, there are many things
from the old world
from your ancestors
that we carry with us always.
It’s our fire. Our light.
He squeezes my arm each time
like he’s pressing the words into my blood.
But there are some things from those times that are still with us.
He pulls his fingers from the jar.
They are smeared with a dark, pasty clay
impossibly wet, dripping back into the jar.