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Night Visitor

Night Visitor

Painting of a room at night illuminated by the moon through the window
It wasn’t the wind but a whisper that announced your presence. It wasn’t a whisper but a movement that told me you were there. More than a movement, it was a wave, swirling, twirling, whirling around me even as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I knew it was you. Because it’s always you. Come to advise me with your sharp tongue. Warn me in words that mince in your mortar and pestle. Protect me with your fringed shroud. 

I invoke you. You point your finger at me, shake it, to make me listen. Somewhere in the air your toothless Yiddish words transform to words I can fully understand without struggle. Is there always this connection between now and then? Or does this just come to those of us attuned to those who came before.

I remember the first time I saw your photograph. Understood you’d lived right in Newark, across the Passaic from where I’d grown up. My father was eighteen when you died. He didn’t remember you. Your sheitl told me you were observant, tufts of your own hair peeking out from underneath near the ears. Your high neckline told me that, too, but that you liked a little bling, all those seed pearls wrapped around your collar. Other photos later told me how much you loved your grandchildren and how much they loved you, their arms wrapped around you like you were the center of their world, a rock to steady them when their own mother, your daughter, had died.

I want to feel the wave again. See your fingers beckon me.