Unclothed by Death
In Judaism, we are taught to name our children only
after dead relatives. This honor said to shine a lighton their thin existence in Sheol, that vague anteroom
to the Judgment Day. But superstition warns: if you nameyour child after a living relative, the Angel of Death could be
confused, take the child instead of the grandparent, uncle, secondcousin once-removed. We feast on superstitions, toss salt
over shoulders, knock wood, leap over cracks, refuse to writethe name of G-d lest we raise the ire of Blessed Be He. And still,
cancer burrows into breast, bladder, throat; COVID rattlesits branched and many arms, tracks our breath, that tether
to the world that is, into our lungs, invites its relatives, multipliesand divides us into sick and well, believer and non, pro
and con, truth and lie. Last year erased a generationfrom my chalkboard of personal history: father, mother,
beloved aunt. Now, I number their days, count the promiseof my years, unaware I wore their presence
like a mantle of forever.
