When I come to visit she always asks if I believe in life after death I always tell her that I do and she always says that she wishes she did but thinks there is nothing
Soon we slip into the stories
I’ve heard them many many times but never remind her of this
The stories are slivers that have pierced her and as she digs them out they appear golden
When my father bathed us as babies and mopped the kitchen floor His beautiful death How she told her ancient Mother that of course her money had not run out, when of course it had years before Her fat, stern uncle who turned out to be so kind and so wise The one time she felt anger toward her Mother-in-law Her Grandfather the rabbi stroking his long beard, the Grandmother with her head covered, washing clothes with a washboard
The sunlit room with only our two voices becomes a sanctuary no mourner’s candles are needed Each story is a door Those we have loved and sometimes feared silently enter and rise like the glittering dust