nanowritmo 29 / Invisible touch

Invisible Touch / Genesis











The next to arrive was M’s sister. Another surprise. Then G. who gave me a hug. Then the Rabbi. With his arrival it was back to the office. As we sat next to each other across the desk from the cemetery’s management, Mister, standing in a corner and our spouses standing behind us, the process was reviewed once again:



The rabbi, followed by me then everyone else would walk from the parking lot to the grave site. There was a tent sent up and under it chairs. I and M. were to sit in the front row. The rabbi would do particular prayers, perform a eulogy, then M. could speak, if he wished. He did not. The rabbi would say another prayer, he would throw a handful or shovel of dirt onto the coffin. I would throw a shovel of dirt onto the coffin. M. would throw a shovel of dirt onto the coffin. Everyone present who wished would throw a handful or shovel full of earth onto the coffin. Then the rabbi would say another prayer while the cemetery people would shovel enough dirt to cover the coffin, unless the coffin was already covered by those present. The rabbi would give the signal for the back hoe, they would fill in the grave. One short prayer and the proceedings would be over. There was no ritual for departure.


We all agreed we understood. It was creepy though, being in the small office with the rabbi and his wife. She looked older, frailer, but he had not changed a bit from my over twenty year old memory. A thought which caused me to consider was that good or bad that at 70 and 90 he looked the same? I wondered if I had been wrong about my ideas of a salacious relationship between my mother and this man, nearly thirty years her senior. But later all would comment on the odd way he stared at me.


From meeting in that small office until he was commenting out the window of the car as he was leaving the rabbi had one litany for me.


“You look so much like your mother.” No one else thinks so. “You must come see me.” I didn’t think so.


His last words were actually to M. “Make her come see me.” He demanded as the car was pulling away. They would be the only words he ever spoke to my husband.


“I can’t and won’t ‘make’ her do anything.” M. called after him, as his sister, who was then standing between us, added, “Okay, can you say ‘ew’? This was the most bizarre thing ever.” and I felt myself relax as my own thoughts had just been validated by someone who knew nothing of my back story.


When we exited the cemetery office, more people had arrived including the cousins. H and M’s sister were off to the side conversing as best they could. I signed across the parking lot to H. that we’d be right there as I was waylaid by G.


G. introduced me to the four or five people I didn’t know. All seemed to be Mother’s patients. She then introduced me to Janet, who seemed to not know why the introduction was being performed, as we each mumbled, 'nice to meet you.' G. then told me that most everyone had been invited to the cousins for an after event. G herself had gotten a telephone invite the night before from W. Janet was unsure if she was going, she had gotten the call from JP. The cousins themselves were in the process of making the rounds handing out maps to their house. G. offered me one.


I glanced at it. The full impact of this would not dawn on me until hours later. What registered at that moment were three things: 1. The cousins no longer lived in the place I last knew and no one had ever told me they’d moved. 2. I glanced around, all the people holding photocopied maps had not called me. 3. The cousins had made no attempt to reach out to me as I tried to make my way back to the two people who were there for me and had never met Mother. I folded the map into a small square which I toyed with in my sweaty hands.


“Are you going?” I asked G.


“No. Are you crazy, I don’t want to go hang out with W. and JP and I certainly don’t want to drive two hours out of my way to do it.” She snorted.


I nodded at L. as I crossed to H. and M’ sister, M. silent beside me. I’d no sooner got there when B. was by my side. She wore a flimsy sundress to which I thought, she really needs a slip and large funnel like hat. She looked like the pictures of Chinese peasants we used to see in National Geographic. In her hands was a stack of photocopies that I presumed was the map and expected this to be her invite. It wasn’t.


“I want to speak.” She demanded of me. “I have this poem I wrote, and there are things I want to say…”


“I’m sorry, you can’t.” I answered her, my voice sounding tired even to me. She sputtered like a child and I thought she was going to stamp her foot. We went back and forth like this for a few moments until Mister was calling the party to line up.


Having never been to an Orthodox funeral before, M. was filling his sister in on the process. H. signed to me that all would be fine and we began to line up. I could hear B. whining to someone, I presumed her father, who still hadn’t spoken to me, saying that I was being unfair and unreasonable. The advice was for her to take a run at me again and this time demand her wishes.


A second later, as we were in the funeral procession, she was beside me again.  A 50 year old whining peasant.


“Why won’t you let me speak, that’s not fair. I want…”


“B. this is not my choice.” Angry, I turned to her, my voice going low as it does when fury takes over. “My mother’s wishes were to have an Orthodox Jewish ceremony. That means women aren’t ALLOWED to speak. I can’t speak!  Lord knows, this is NOT my politics, I don't agree with it, I don't like it and I have no idea why my mother wanted this. But she did. She was very clear about it to me and others. So that’s the way it’s going to be.” I hissed as B. stood blinking. L. had fallen inline behind me and for a moment our eyes met. For the first time, I thought I saw sympathy.


I turned to face front and could hear B trotting back telling people, “Oh, it’s not me, she won’t let speak. It’s against the rules….” This was rather annoying since of all the "family" present, I was the one who dogmatically refused to be a part of any organized religion, claimed no ethnic affliations, and was considered the evil and ignorant pagan.   A second later B was there again. “Can I distribute these?” She asked, holding out the photocopies that I had thought were maps. I saw then they were copies of either her poem or what she wanted to read. I nodded assent and she happily started handing them out down the line, starting behind me.


Finally we were walking to the grave site.