They cut the grass today and I breathed summer.
I inhaled the hot air, the mosquitos and ices melting onto my kitchen floor.
I took in barbeques, scraped knees, and ants traipsing across my dining room.
I drew in the blue sky, the open days, and hours on a park bench watching my son.
They cut the grass today, and I can’t wait to be bored.
Boldly she stood in the center of the room. Mirrors enveloped us, and neither of us could hide. I stood cowering in the corner; shoulders turned inward, my reflection only cast in small parameters of my reach. I wanted to be her, I watched as she pulled her shirt over her head efficiently, effortlessly, without thought, or consciousness.Her image refracted and bounced across the room, for all, especially me, to admire.
But then I didn’t, admire her, not, not look. Snaking down her stomach was a dark shriveled line. It was thick, thicker than a broad-tipped Sharpie. And it wasn’t a scar; it wasn’t red or raised, just raisin-esque. I wondered what condition could have possibly marred her with that ghastliness, the ugly. There were more winding around her abdomen in a haphazard pattern, and I wondered why she didn’t hide in a corner, like me. Involuntarily, I turned to face the corner, maybe hide for her. But her image was still in front of me, in the mirror, confidently, trying on a marled sweater.
No one else seemed to be watching her.
No one else seemed to notice.
Hastily, I tried on the skirt I brought into the open dressing room, careful not to expose my large thighs, and complementing backside. After a few minutes and sweaters, she went on her beautiful way.
I’ve since learned of her condition, and know that there is no suffering from it, but only love, that child can give.
I’m still suffering from mine though, not visible, not scarring, but more debilitating. And there’s no one’s love that will heal it, only my own.
I sat by the shiva and listened to the stories. We laughed at a lot of them, because my grandfather was a witty man, were in awe by many, because my grandfather is still an inspiration. I texted myself notes of the stories, so I could write them up later.
When later came, I had a lot of material, but nothing to write. These were other people’s memories and impressions of my Zaidy, they were representative of how they knew him. I wanted to tell my story, my version of Zaidy, but my memory failed me. I could only think of one time where I could relate what he said, all the other memories, were just that, memories, fleeting glances and glimpse, small actions, and expression, no speech, or reaction; it was really all emotion. They all said one thing though, my Zaidy loved me.
Yes, my Zaidy was a baal chessed, yes, he was straight and righteous, yes, he was funny. He was all those things everyone who was maspid him said he was, and more really. For me, what I’ll always have is my Zaidy’s love, and the way he made me feel.
I didn’t see him that often honestly, nor did I call. I wasn’t the best and devoted grandchild. But from when I was small and fragile, and up until two days ago, when I’m now grown (and still a bit fragile), my Zaidy greeted me with, “Esther, my Esther.” Every wedding, bar mitzvah, sheva brachos, Channukah party, seldom visit that I saw him, he’d look into my eyes, clasp my cold hands tight in his perpetual warmth and say those words. I’d lean in and give him a kiss on his beard-scratchy cheek, pull back, and he’d look into my eyes again, smile small, and give my hands, still in his, a squeeze.
I was the only person in the world that mattered in those moments.
Yes, he told me stories, great mashalim for life. I remember his little notepad filled with all the funny anecdotes his kids did growing up, and him reading their mischief with pride. Yes, I spent a lot of time in the store and saw how he greeted the meshulachim, and how he made the kids say their “please and thank-you’s” to get paper. All these things, they made an impression, they shaped me, my perspectives, my priorities, they are so much a part of me, that I often forget where it started and often even attribute them to my father, who emulates my Zaidy in many ways.
But besides for the lessons and inspiration my Zaidy was for other people, and for me too, when I think of him, my first reaction, and thoughts, are love. I just feel loved. I feel loved, important, accepted, which as young confused child, to a navigating adult, I needed. And still need.
My father expressed his love with his hands: a handshake, a hug, a pat on the back, and I was ashamed.
They were large, smooth, and warmest to touch. With a pat on my head, a squeeze on my shoulders, and on cold winter days, enveloping my hands in his to warm up, I knew my father loved me. But I didn’t want anyone to see them.
Do you know the intoxicating smell of ink? No, not pen ink, but the real stuff, the pails of densest black, seafaring blue, and Snow White’s, blood red. That’s what was imprinted on my father’s hand, embedded in every crevice, snaking every line: dried ink. Printer’s hands.
He’d wash his hands every day, scrub them really, with a brush course enough for your kitchen tiles, but the ink stained, blemished, tarnished and everyone thought they knew who my father was: a laborer.
They saw the back support belt when he carried the large shipments of paper into the store. They saw the dirty apron he wore, to protect his clothes. They smelled the high of the ink, and heard the clanging, suction, and rotations of the machines. And they saw his hands. Even on Shabbos, even by simchas, dressed in a Marcy’s suit, they saw his hands, his ink stained hands. And he was blue collar. And I was ashamed.
Two times a year they were pure, Succos and Pesach; he didn’t work on Chol Hamoed, so there was time for repeated washings without repeated contact. My father did those days, what his heart wanted the time to do every day, listen to a shiur, do a chessed, and really, love his family. I loved my father back those days. And I’d squeeze his hand in return; he was what I knew him to be: a ben Torah. For those moments, I was proud of him. I even took pictures of his clean hands.
Time has changed the printing process. Gone are the offset presses; everything is digital now. No more noise, plates, dark rooms, negatives, and no more ink. There are no more pails of ink, only drums and cartridges keeping my father safe from exposure. His hands are white these days. Clean, pure these days. Though I’ve grown older, and come to appreciate the stained ink, the dedication, the hard work, effort and sacrifice they represent; it’s still nice to hold my father’s hand today, hands that now reflect his heart.
I just read this article from the Wall Street Journal. It’s titled “Why Chinese Mothers are Superior”, the author describes the parenting behind the stereotypical overachieving Chinese kid. In the beginning I found myself agreeing with the writer, but then when she went into further detail, I recoiled. I could never treat my child that way, nor do I want to, regardless of the results. The end does not justify the means, and who says the end is so admirable anyway, who defines academic success and musical accomplishments as success in life…on the other hand, Western parenting, doesn’t seem to be having much success in the respect and achievement department either. What is the happy medium? Where do you draw the lines?
I’m a cliché, watching my son sleep. His head is lilted back; mouth set in a pout, and his arm thrown up in surrender to sleep. I’m watching, and loving, and I can stand here all day perched at the edge of his crib. I can describe what I’m feeling: an overwhelming, crushing sensation of emotion that almost hurts, but it’s so beautiful and tender, and just let myself bathe in it; I can’t explain it though.
I thought when I got married that I experienced and found a new definition to love. And that love made sense, the give, the take, the give. But it seems motherhood has its own definition and depth and length of love, and there is no defying it, cultivating it, nurturing it, it just is. Eternal.
I stand here a little longer, gazing intently at my son. He stirs and I jump. But then he’s restful again, and I breathe. I break my connection, and slowly leave the room, turning back just once more before I leave.
Picking up the phone, I dial the familiar numbers it seems for the umpteenth time today.
“Hello?” a rushed voice answers.
“I never knew how much you love me, Ma” I reply.
This post was spurred by “In My Life’s” post about not giving a guy a second date because she didn’t go for his looks.
My friends are beautiful.
Every single one them.
Statistically it’s a little improbable unless I make it a point to only make friends with pretty people. I’m not THAT shallow…so how do I reconcile the statistics.
We go to the age old adage of.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”
This line goes past person preferences of blonde vs. brunette, blue- eyed- vs. brown eyed, tall vs. short, fair vs. dark. It goes into the very murky territory of inner beauty and love.
My friends are beautiful because I love them (I also think I may have defied statistics, but never mind)
I don’t see the extra pounds, the full cheeks, quirky nose, thin hair, bad complexion, frumpy taste, crooked teeth, bowed legs…I see a friend. That I love.
I know it’s sappy and corny and clichéd…but things only become that when they’re nice truths.
We live in a world that seeks out angst and negativity, logic and criticism as forms of prized individuality. Simple things like love, beauty, positivity are cast aside as being weak, insipid, and emotional.
These things will give you a lot more in life even if it not an “objective truth”.
So basically, don’t cast off anyone based on looks until you know them. In dating, in friends, co-workers, students, teachers….I’m sure everyone has someone in their life who have proved them wrong in this area, whether the were initially beautiful until you got to know them, or plain, but now beautiful because you know them…
To all my friends out there and you know who you are,
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL (and you know that’s a high compliment coming from me)
