In the afternoons
we go to the Sitting Stones,
and while her singing gets better every day,
her skin gets worse—
red bumps, hives on her legs,
her face swollen until her eye almost shuts.
But she sings,
and I doodle,
draw maps of the trees,
and fog sits in the forest.
I can’t come this weekend, I say.
It’s Shabbat and the High Holidays,
and we’re supposed to go to synagogue all the time.
What’s Shabbat?
In my mind I picture
the brisket my mom used to make
and challah twisted into hearts,
with honey dripping from wood spoons,
roasted chicken with dried fruit,
brownies or halva for dessert.
I tell her about all of it,
my mouth watering.
Wow, she says.
But since my mom left,
we usually eat my grandpa’s chili
or something simple.
Is that why you don’t like to talk, Etan?
I look at her.
I mean maybe you let your mom
take all your words with her?
I mean maybe she’s the one you talked
to the most, and now that she’s …
well, maybe you just don’t want to give them to anyone else?
I mean besides your grandpa or even your dad sometimes.
I look at her.
She wraps Blankie around her head a bit
but then smiles big.
I mean, until now, of course?
What?
Me, dummy! Now you have me.
Maybe you just needed a friend who wants to hear
what you have to say.
She scratches her neck, walks to the pool.
You should come sometime, I say. To Shabbat, I mean.
Okay, she says,
wading into the water.
For now, I’m gonna find that darn green rock.