Penumbra Weekly

I. Remember  

Sitting on the floor of my sister’s room, lights off, I

am uttering words–not just any words–no, cries, I keep 

repeating over and over again. My heart’s burning

with every plea I make. I look up to see a black sky and my

gifts from Grandpa in front of the window. NYC’s bridges

peek behind brightly lit skyscrapers as my eyes look down

at our letters from him on the floor. No matter what, just

let him stay around a little longer, I say. He’s supposed to

turn 80 in a few weeks… I never said I love you. With our keep-

sakes covered in tears, we beg, let him survive, we need you 

to. I see rain falling outside. Maybe he’ll make it out alive.

II. Compassion  

I sit in the silent synagogue as we pray to the Lord,

but I haven’t been able to find the words, and I

can’t seem to think about anything other than just

how it all ended, and how the world has moved

on. Besides, even on Rosh Hashanah, I don’t pray to

God: I don’t know how, or really what it means, and this

life of mine hasn’t needed prayers. In a bustling city,

no one can think. Well, there was that night we were hoping

that if we thought and we whispered just right, the noise

would make our cries be heard. Instead, my sister drowns 

herself in tears, and I beg and plead for him to get out

alive, and the next day, he’s out but not alive. When the 

call came, I couldn’t make myself feel anything but regret 

for not doing enough that night–or in his life. But

we’re in the front row of our synagogue again, with did-

you-did-you-not’s ringing in my ears. Today you 

are supposed to try to be a better person, but I can’t find

that person, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t find what-

ever is supposed to make me be her. And today you

are supposed to think about what you did wrong, but were

we not loud enough that night? Maybe in looking 

so hard for the right words and cries, we didn’t speak for 

him. The shofar’s blow lingers in the air. I try to find some-

thing to feel other than remorse and anger, but there’s no escape

from the echo of our pleading, and I can’t seem to part from

that night, so as silent prayers end, and our rabbi says, Take your

book in your hand and stand, I push it all far into my skin.

III. Mercy  

We pile into the synagogue on an unusually still

day. New York City’s leaves somehow haven’t 

darkened or crumpled, as if summer never found

the door. It’s Yom Kippur, when we atone for what

we did wrong, and in the sanctuary’s dim light, I’m

supposed to reflect on my mistakes and sit looking

for forgiveness, but in my spine, my sin is twisted for 

I’ve buried it so deep and tried to cover it with some  

empty months. This is the only way I see to escape 

the pain, but I know it will come pouring out from 

me someday, vow after vow. Maybe when my

day comes, I’ll be bound to Grandpa, not my sin. 

IV. Reflection

Walking on piles of day-old snow on 79th and Park, I

make my way to school. A few specks of snow fall just

on the right path to tap my left shoulder, and I wanna

trust that they’ve of course fallen from a tree, but I keep 

the idea lingering that maybe he dropped them; For you,

my beautiful girl, he’d say. Something in me feels alive.