Washing the Dead
“During our family walk to Shabbos services, I saw her eyes honeying over, the first sign that at any moment she could dip away from us, into that place inside herself. Ever since last April, the mist had turned soupy, and I worried that we would both drown in it.
“Let’s do the last block fast, Mom.” If we moved quickly, we could outrun the fog.
“Okay, Barbara,” she said, as if I were a small girl and had asked her to play one more game of Go Fish. I was seventeen. She appeased me, and we took o...ff. We were both small and wiry, and we walked quickly, our heels touching the pavement in synchrony.
“Faster, Mom. They’ll never catch us.” I looked back at my father and my brother, Neil, both panting to keep our pace.
She slowed down, as if faltering. “I’m tired today, Sweet B.”
I grabbed her hand, and she squeezed my palm with her fingers, cool and long as a concert pianist’s. Then she let go. She didn’t like to be touched when the mist overtook her.
“Let’s let your father and Neil catch up,”MoreLess
“Let’s do the last block fast, Mom.” If we moved quickly, we could outrun the fog.
“Okay, Barbara,” she said, as if I were a small girl and had asked her to play one more game of Go Fish. I was seventeen. She appeased me, and we took o...ff. We were both small and wiry, and we walked quickly, our heels touching the pavement in synchrony.
“Faster, Mom. They’ll never catch us.” I looked back at my father and my brother, Neil, both panting to keep our pace.
She slowed down, as if faltering. “I’m tired today, Sweet B.”
I grabbed her hand, and she squeezed my palm with her fingers, cool and long as a concert pianist’s. Then she let go. She didn’t like to be touched when the mist overtook her.
“Let’s let your father and Neil catch up,”MoreLess
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