On the wall
in the kitchen
near the window
on the bulletin board
there are yellow Post-its
written in parent handwriting,
like flags from
when life was normal.
Milk,
work at three,
call grandmother,
and somewhere, in the far, far corner
are the words, written by my father,
Wednesday, July 25th, 4 p.m.
and the word Rabbi.
Today.
There is no one to see me take
the Post-it off the board,
no one to know or remember
that this appointment ever existed.
I look at the phone,
willing my father to call at this moment,
tell me to get moving,
but not this time.
No air-and-tear-filled speech
about how his rabbi was good to him,
even after all the bad things
he said he had done as a kid,
getting in fights, being late
to synagogue, and sometimes
even lying to his parents.
He told me that seeing the rabbi,
the gathering of my study papers,
my cassettes, tying my shoes
and combing my hair, the quiet walk,
the silvery touch of the mezuzah
entering the synagogue on my own,
all of it is ritual.
Part of my story. Part of my becoming a man.
I hold the Post-it,
alone
in the quiet apartment,
no one to tell me whether
to go or not.
Something, for once, seems up to me,
standing near the apple bowl,
yellow Post-it between my fingers
with the word Rabbi
in felt marker.
I look at the refrigerator.
I think about my father.
I think about my choices.
I think about who I am,
who I want to be.
I think about the beach
and Lisa
and how the world
feels so big sometimes.
If I leave now,
I might make it.