He only does business in Australia

As a child,  all I dreamt of was being abandoned, night after night. I sought solace in insects and stuffed animals. A no-fly zone where I didn’t have to listen to anyone or what they happened to think was important.

What was the point?

It’s hard being an immigrant and not belonging. It never quite leaves you, no matter if you’ve lost the accent and pal around with the guys. It’s always eating away at you. Reminding you that you’re not who they think you are. In fact, you’re not who you think you are. You’re not quite sure.

I think it’s different now. You don’t have to leave. Or, if you do leave you can just visit. You don’t have to stay. So you get to keep your first self.

 I keep searching and I don’t know what I am looking for anymore. I just wait to see what turns up and hope for the best. Usually, I meet men- young and old- who are also searching. Often, it’s on a plane, but it’s happened on a beach or in a restaurant. It’s usually more meaningful on a plane because of the captive quality of the experience. Neither can escape until the plane lands.  More secrets are revealed. Kisses are exchanged, as well as email addresses.

I am not an immigrant, just the daughter of one. It seems so 20^th century and I feel so 19^th century. I am here and there simultaneously, not really knowing where I belong.  I keep moving, searching for a way out. 

But then my dreams devolve. Releasing me and maybe those I carry with me. My guts spill out.  Expelled. They contain blood and vibrant tissue, as well as what looks like fish bones- life and death- my parents skeletal remains wrapped in my living flesh.  Telling me that it is unlikely to ever break free. Not even in my dreams.

I was wrong

It can always get worse. You can forget that your beloved is dead and wonder where she lives now.  You don't dare to ask why she isn't living with you, but you allow yourself to ask if she lives in an apartment. Is it close? Could you visit? You don't ask why she doesn't try to contact you. In fact, you no longer know about the why of anything. There is no why. You don't know if you are alive or dead, and frankly, it doesn't make a difference. Can it really get worse?

At the intersection of lack of belief and no memory, there are no winners. His jacket has seen better days, but he sports a silver rose in his lapel. It  retains a faint scent that bears a resemblance to his beloved.  He claims to remember her.  He claims to remember us. But, he only knows us by our numbers. One. Two. Three. Four.  Reduced to the order in which we arrived. Right or wrong.

The unexpected grief

One grief disappears and another makes its entrance. I thought grief was a package deal. Cascading into a vessel with a volume that varied depending on the day. But no. Of course not. Chinks in the facade. Everything penetrable.

We keep looking up, but it sneaks up from behind. Or sideways. It is never in disguise. Grief engulfs. Swallows you up whole. But it doesn't spit you out. Oh, no.  It chews and chews. Slowly. Savoring the melancholy. The fear.

In this moment, I fall. There is no time to stake my territory. Grief forces a crash landing. If I am lucky, I will recognize some of the pieces beside me, and over time, learn how to put them together again.

Holding

She worries that now that they are gone, the world will crumble. Everything falling apart. Bit by bit. One by one. Each child tumbling into the abyss. What she doesn't realize is that this is a necessity. It has to happen. What has come before no longer holds. A new order is being created.  It is time to learn the art of selfishness. Or at least a variation on it. An old voice remembers. She swoons. Oh, my darling! Who will take care of you? They taught us only one thing and we learned it well. Only one focus. One intention. Don't look at the edges of your life. There is only one life. But now they are gone. We are left with rags. Not riches. The empty spaces point to a center. Can it be undone? Rebuilt? We approach as children. Will we always be children? Will this always seem like someone else's life? Can we be undone? Unfinished? Lurching into spaces that hold our names.  Calling us to return. To serve the center with the obvious holes once more? What did they take with them? What did they leave?

It will never be done. We will always be children. Waiting. Hoping.   Each one. All. Trying to form a new whole. Unable to reach across to meet the other.  Arms flailing. Hold me. Hold me. Will you take care of me? Will I take care of you?

We know. We nod. We hold. And then we hope that this is the first step, not the last.

I miss you more

I could never have imagined. Your smile. Your eyes. The sound of your breathing. The way you hummed as you pushed your walker. The bones in your shoulders. You left so quickly. So well intentioned. We were left behind. The wall got higher and thicker. But you managed to slip out and visit. I am grateful that the urge to travel hasn't left you.  You were eating. A favorite pastime. Sprawled like an  odalisque. Where is the meaning? Am I dreaming about you or am I dreaming about me? I no longer worry about you. Instead of reassuring me, it leaves a vast and empty space.I peer in and see nothing. I don't know how to move without you. My eyes reflect your blue.  I was devoted. I was devout.  A little girl circles. She whispers to me. I can see you. I can see you. It gives me hope that soon I will see myself. Guided by the blue of sea and sky. And a little girl whispering.

Then the heavens parted

An ancient blue eye with a very small pupil stares at me. Unknowing yet unwavering. It looks. It penetrates. But it cannot see. It is only for my benefit that it appears. It is to remind me of what I need to see. To keep seeing. To never stop seeing. It makes me so angry. My sinuses could explode. Why do I need to see so much? And it doesn't end there. Seeing leads to feeling which leads to expression which leads back to feeling. Over and over. The pupil doesn't change size. It has lost interest. Moved on. The void is fixed. The blue watery. The connection is gone.

In which she appears unceremoniously and tells me to get on with my life

She was nothing if not practical. So, it should come as no surprise that in her one dramatic appearance since her death, the message was short and to the point. We had our life together, get over it and move on. Our life was not your life and it isn't now.  What were you thinking? What are you thinking? Got it. Yes. It makes me sick. I break teeth. Gnashing. Snarling. Oy vey- whose woods are these? Clearly not mine. I have been trespassing for 58 years and now they tell me? Isn't possession 9/10ths of the law?  Shall I go or shall I stay? I am unhinged. There is nothing to hold on to. I mistook the center that did not hold for the one that did. Will I ever learn? And then the odd thought that as the last one to appear, maybe I was an accident. And if so, then the feelings are even more warranted than before. But no, there is enough to understand without adding another layer of complexity. Just when I thought the coast was clear. Just when I started to step out and up. I yearn for Jewish things. The fluffy matzo ball floating in over salted soup. All the old ones making jokes barely making it across the floor with their walkers. The corny toast of L'Chaim that came forth every Friday night with the cheap red wine. Something and someone to hold onto. Instead, I live in what some consider paradise. Fruit trees blossoming. Mountains as a backdrop. Quiet and peaceful dark descending. But it is the Jews I yearn for. The noisy nosey ones of my life. The curious inquiring minds. The center that held itself together with glue and spit. Centuries. Continents. Adrift.