Jenn

I imagined Jenn in the role of a “sniffer.” Children fly away and probably years pass until they feel a sharp homesickness for the abandoned home and the mother in it.

Cry, Jenn! Cry! Your whole personal life—with your ex-husband and with Baron—is all transactions, business contracts! But let only God judge you for your relationship with an ageing family man. Let only the fearsome singing of the rabbi, appealing to the Almighty, awaken remorse in your soul.

Is it for me, a person secretly stalking you, to judge your life? I was also married, and I also cheated on my ex, by the way. But I watch, watch wistfully as you now are exiting from the synagogue doors, where godly things were given unto God.

You are wearing a black velour coat and ankle boots. You are fixing your hat, exchanging words with some woman. You’re probably laughing, but your laughter does not reach me. I only hear the croaking of the crows and the roar of cars passing by.

You’re nodding; maybe someone’s inviting you to visit for some Jewish holiday. There you will drink kosher wine and eat challah. You will discuss how things are going: someone’s circumcision or someone’s Chuppah in an expensive restaurant, or the disgraces occurring in the charitable organization assisting Holocaust victims.

There are bottomless chasms between us, which even no Boeing can cross.

Goodbye Jenn!

She steps to the side, stopping right by the curb. She is probably waiting for a taxi like she did it on last Saturday.

She waits, shifting from one foot to the other and slightly shrugging her shoulders. It’s chilly; there is November wind. Dampness oozed from the black earth and wet asphalt.

Tap-tap from the boot heels. And all of a sudden her black coat slips off of her, the strong wind picks it up and carries it somewhere behind the synagogue building, past the road and behind the bushes. Her boots fly away behind it. Her long skirt and blouse, everything, everything flies away ripping to shreds in the wind!

And so…rum-pum-pum…snow white Jenn is gliding wearing her tutu. Rum-pum-pum… her hands are quivering as if shaking off drops of water from the feathers. Her chest is trembling and her neck is gracefully extended.

facebooktwittergoogle_plus