Jiya Backup

Dear mummy lay dying in the jungle amidst huge frauds and primordial flowers; birds of paradise in robes of orange and red, flowering jasmine, hibiscus, tuberose,   and the waving leaves of banana trees. She lived not far from my brother, but in her own dwelling. On the morning of her last day of life, I tried to feed her, but she swallowed only one spoon of applesauce, only three sips of water. A peacock slept outside Mummy's room, always on the same branch of the same tree. Defiantly, that morning, he crossed the threshold of her room and spreading his feathers of indigo, turquoise, and bronze, he approached her bed. Then circling the room, screeched his sorrowful song, and was gone. Later, the hospice nurses arrived. They  washed Mummy, and as they were sweeping her back and forth in the sheets, the nurse alerted me that her last breaths were drawing near. I sat on the bed and held Mummy's forehead and shoulder. At that indelible moment, my brother entered the room. I could...

I was still wearing undershirts, though too hefty for them. It was a summer of water balloons. One of us would crouch over a faucet, Another would knot thin ones and plump ones, plump as a baby's belly. Then we'd lob each other gleefully and with vengeance. From a wall, we'd drop our watery bombs on innocent shoppers wheeling carts in the blazing sun. That week, I was the only girl not asked to the sleepover at Louise's house. But then, as you'd have it, the boys needed me. I was to merely knock on the door, and they'd bombard her hall with dripping balloons. Later, she would upbraid me saying - "How dare you, you stained my mother's carpet." By then, my heart 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. We raced past the park, past the stone mouthed panthers guarding the hollow, panthers roaring with vengeance and glee. The sky was oil...

No time to think of bread, how then timbrels? We were women believing in wonder, in miracles, believing in life. Crossing the waves, no longer slaves, Crossing the deep, with joy did we weep, Crossing the sea, craving ecstasy. Gave timbrels to shaking, felt earth quaking, Gave timbrels to ringing, we began singing, a great and wondrous song to God.

You never call, you never write. Well yes, you text, but you never call. He's scared his voice will reveal misery Decades, it will take decades to work through all this. We've all been there, torn asunder from our souls.

We walked among the violet hills, she'd point to gull, to rock, to stone, or to a violet sun ablaze, and then I'd feel not so alone. And when the trees called out their song, I'd feel their tender call of glee, I walked with grandma, my dear pal, and somewhere, a song sang in me.

At sunset, we walked, the two of us. With cane in hand, she'd point to a stone, I'd dust it and drop it in my bag. Once, she swore she'd seen a hissing snake at the mouth of a cave. So scared, swore she'd run all the way down the hill. . It was hard to fathom her running. I'd seen her mainly in slow motion, at sink or stove stirring mushroom barley soup or kasha with noodles. For a tiny moment, I could almost imagine her running, in the next breath, it was unimaginable again. My heart ached, how I never wanted anything to happen to her, not from a hissing snake, not God-forbid from anything. That day, I spilled shiny pebbles, smooth stones and craggy stones upon the wooden floor. With cane in hand, she'd pointed to each stone, just for me and for me alone.

I went down to a turquoise sea, because I felt so very bleak, and flapped and spread a turquoise cloth, and rubbed some oil upon my cheek, And when green waves were rolling in, and monstrous waves were rushing loud, I poured some oil upon my arms and gazed up at a vagrant cloud. When I had dipped into the sea, I tried to shield myself from cold, but now I felt a rapturous glee, and now I felt I could be bold. But jelly fish were hovering near, they aimed their harsh harpoons at me, and left me tingling like a bell, then faded through the violent sea. Though I was gifted by the sea with prickly sting and reddened sting, I will accept this raspy pain, like gull accepts its ravished wing. And I will walk along the shore, and watch waves dance and dance away, the violet passage of the clouds the golden passage of the day.

I loved to walk with Grandma Josie, her cheeks as red as any posy. With cane in hand, she'd point to a stone that was meant for me, and for me alone. I'd drop it in my bag with glee, a sacred treasure, just for me. Once, swore she'd seen an ugly knave rearing his head from mouth of cave. She'd come upon a hissing snake, Oh, how it made my small heart ache. Swore she'd run so fast that day, like a bear in heat, she'd hav'ta say. Now grandma hobbled and wobbled, no lie - could never picture her on the fly. So I wiggled and giggled; then I swore, infuriating grandma all the more. Exasperated, she raised up her cane, said of her existence, I was the bane.

"Not something my parents would have done for ten different reasons,"  he said. Chicks galore, in all colors, lime, blue, pink, chirping away under florescent light, we'd buy them at Woolworths every Easter. Being Jewish did not make this taboo for my parents, but for his - no way. Later, our chicks shed their dyed feathers. Released into the living room, they'd fly round in gay abandon - one chick, Snowy, ever perching on my brother's shoulder. With sticky seeds, feathers, spilled water, things could get messy. Another reason his parents would have said, "No thanks." Not to mention, you could pick up all kinds of disease. We grew up wild and wooly, helping my dad run his business out of the house, but we were granted freedom, like buying chicks at Woolworths. As Frost said of his road, "And that has made all the difference."

I went down my love to stir in gardens of spice and myhrr. Lillkoi, oh my joy, Guava, my darlin'. Underneath the banyan tree, there he slept so peacefully. Papaya, oohlala, Guava, my darlin'. It was in the mornin' mist, when we first began to kiss. Banana, nanana Guava, my darlin'. Do ya, do ya love me true, Do ya swear it through and through? Prickly pear, do I dare? Guava, my darlin.

Joseph umasked himself. Drawing them close, he said, "I am Joseph, your brother. Does my father still live?" His brothers stood there, stunned, speechless, ridden with guilt. Joseph was desperate to reframe things. He told them that they may have meant him harm, but all along, God had another plan in mind. All along, God was figuring out a way to to get a jump start in Egypt, so that when famine came, they'd have a way to survive. That's the narrative Joseph spun, reframing, so his family could knit together, and move on. If Joseph, thrown into a pit by his brothers and sold into slavery, could reframe a story; then anyone can; surely the two of us.

When Grandpa Morris was a boy, he'd go off to the sun-crazed fields to seed and plough, and if he saw a strawberry, ripe and ready, he'd pick it, cradle it in his hands when not at work, a gift for mother. At sunset, he'd present the strawberry for her sweet smile. When he came to these golden shores, he'd patch elbows of his sweaters, and send dollars back home wrapped in sheets of carbon paper to fool the censors. This, before all turned to ash, except for one niece. Tales told mouth to mouth of man and boy, of strawberry and sweater.

When Blanche Bauman of Beverley Hills strolled into the room, all heads turned. She crossed her long legs, and gave the judge her full attention. There I was at the national Bible contest, struggling to answer the next question for the crusty judge, when Blanche strolled in full of razzle dazzle. Blanche, Mom's second cousin, visiting New York, figured she'd swing by, and lend her support. That day, I didn't win the grand prize, a trip to Israel, I came in third which was kinda' sad, but I'd live with it. "Jean, why didn't you dress her up more? Then maybe the judges would've noticed her more." Blanche inquired of my Mom. Her words rebounded inside me. In my cotton black suit and white blouse, I felt like a church mouse in need of a meal, scrounging around for a morsel here, a morsel there. I'd been holed up in an attic, studying away. dutifully prim and proper. Next day, Mom confessed that we'd traipsed around all day and found nothing for...

Fishke, the lame, schlepped coals, lugged water, guarded clothing in his shtetle bathhouse, begged for bread if he had to. Behold one day, he met his hunchback girl, they talked endlessly. She'd been abandoned as a child, then abducted by a gang of thieves who beat her, and set her to begging for them. His hunchback girl would look at Fishke with such tenderness that he said to himself, "Fishke, you are not alone in the world, no you are not, not anymore." "She sees you, she sees your pain, You see her, her pain, as well. Enough to bring two souls together and so be glad."