Jiya Backup

Tel Aviv dressed in white, the sea her sequined scarf. I imagine how I could as easily have stayed here, carved out a life. Had a child named Tal like the Tal from El Al, red head, tough and sweet blushingly beautiful, Tal, my Tal, early morning dew on bougainvillea. I hear her calling me, whispering my name. Waves wash the Tel Aviv coast, I see an Ethiopian girl, thin as a stick, jumping in and out of the water. "Eema, count for me, see how long I stay under. I see a blond of four, born in Frankfurt, having a tea party with herself, tiny cup, tiny pitcher, visiting grandpa. A couple from Paris lotioning a baby, placing him in inflated tub, pushing him along with help of sea and sky. All of us, like Yehuda, part here, part there, glimpsing past, present, and what may still be ours to have.

A Russian river, maybe the Volga, overhead, three ravens cross the wintery sky, then swoop down on an ice glazed branch - Three princes: two Muslim, one a Jew, while earth's red shadow eclipses a satin moon. We trudge up fifteen steps, freshly shoveled. A lit candelabra welcomes us. Inside guests gather. I greet paintings from other walls, carpets from other planks, piano hauled from home to home. A gaggle of students huddle on a couch, quacking, quacking, flipping cards across a cedar chest, when down swoop - Three princes: two Muslim, one a Jew, while earth's red shadow eclipses a satin moon. One Pakistani, one Afghani, one from Iran, "These three always hang together," he says. An Indian woman with diamond studs joins them, also a one-legged lad; half Chinese, half white, and Daniel, son of Survivors, his wife, Tova, their son, Levi. All here to celebrate Andy's birthday come round like a full moon. Against all odds, he's alive. The piano has traveled, as h...

That night, we slept with distant cousins, lost our luggage en route to Tel Aviv. Shifra wasn't terribly glad to see us. We gave her Nina Ricci from Air France. "Best hit the road as soon as sun is up," Shifra says. "Start interviewing early." First kibbutznick will not have my sister, "Too young, too much responsibility." Next agrees to take her; he's a Communist. "Fine, even a girl of fourteen can work." Orders Egged driver to drop us at Sde Yoav. "Never heard of it, my friend," the driver shrugs. "Cross the road from Negba, you know Negba." By a weepy willow, he drops us off. We trudge down a long dusty trail. With little fanfare, they put us to clearing a field, bending, tossing rocks of all sizes into a pile. As I bend down yet again, I see before me a flapping of wings. A stork has opened her beak and dropped us down on this God forsaken plot of earth. For three days, we toil under the hot sun. Watery blisters sp...

That summer, we heaved water balloons at each other. I was wearing undershirts, though too hefty for them, I barely knew myself. One of us was crouching over a facet, another was knotting long ones and plump ones, plump as a baby's belly. Then we'd lob each other gleefully and with vengeance. From high embankments, we'd lob innocent shoppers, their sole sin, wheeling carts to cars. That week, I was the only girl not asked to Louise's sleepover. But then as you'd have it, the boys needed my help. I was to knock on the door - and they'd blast her hall with scads of dripping balloons. Later, she would upbraid me, saying, "How dare you - you stained my mother's carpet."  By then, my hurt had taken another turn. Same night, I went bike riding with the boys. My steed, an ancient racer, once grime and webs in the dank cellar, now brought to life. At last, I could escape. We raced past the park, past the stone mouthed panthers guarding the hollow, panthers...

A new bride at twenty four, married on the rebound, I'd have to say. We moved to a place on the wrong side of town. Venetian blinds clung to the windows. I'd replace them with curtains from Sears, both blue and flowery, but too short for the windows - like kids in hand-me-downs. Three months go by. Ivan's asked to be best man at his friend's wedding in St. Louis. Then suddenly, his grandfather, a Pittsburgh icon, dies and now Ivan has to choose: funeral or wedding. What goes 'round, comes 'round, Karma you'd call it. Ivan makes his choice, and I acquiesce. We leave the smokey city behind us on the windy Thursday of Thanksgiving. I'm glad for a break from my screeching seventh graders. I take along my basket with patterns and pins. Howard and Ellen welcome us into their drafty flat. Saturday, we'll all be dancing at the wedding. That night, trying to sleep, I hear a tip-tapping, the undeniable tapping of roaches on tented tin foil covering the turkey,...

Fleeing from Egypt, Nachshon Ben Amichai was the first to march into the Sea, Before Moses with his staff, before Aaron with his rod, before Miriam with her timbral, before the waves themselves had parted. Where did he get the chutzpah? From where the nerve, the verve? You have to wonder - when it's so difficult, sometimes, To make a simple decision. Maybe he could hear The Divine pounding Pounding inside.

"Does anyone have a tissue?",  asks Miriam. Easy, straight forward, yet, for me, it's not easy to ask for favors, even small ones. My brother says, "Thank God I can receive love from the birds." Not easy for him to be with people, but birds are fine.

In Tucson, you can scorch your hand on the handle of a car door, or fry an egg on the sidewalk. In New York, beware of black ice, you can slip, not difficult at all, take it from me. So easy to get fried or iced, a moment's inattention, a willing suspension, and all that misery - so unwanted.

Staring at trees has become my daily ritual, deciding if a tree is male, female, old young, strong, feeble, intelligent, fearful. Second day of January, out walking. Will I meet a friend for my soul, will we exchange names, converse? Will these bare limbs remind me of someone from my past, someone I haven't seen in years? Will we continue our discourse from long ago?

I'd drizzled the sky with threads of saffron to mark the new year. Air still very still, only the tip tops of trees stirred and my cheeks burned to a burnt sienna. If only I had a baklava, I'd traipse across the tundra like a Russian peasant. I'd feed salt to spotted deer. I'd drizzle the sky with threads of saffron. .