My mother always wanted me to embrace my Judaism. I ask Thomas, “Do you know about shiva?” I tell him what I remember about the mourning ritual. For seven days, I must only think of my mother. I must recite stories about her. I must not look into a mirror. I must honor her. I must immerse myself in her memory.
Thomas grunts. After a while, he says, “No one alive who’d sit shiva for me.” He rolls up his window. “Your mom must have been a good lady.”
“Maybe,” I say. “My mom was at Berkeley during the Vietnam War–”
Thomas interrupts me. He asks, “Both your mom and sister went to Berkeley?”
I nod, then I say, “My father told me that my mother was protesting the war and that my grandpa had to pick her up from college after she had been tear-gassed. …show more content…
I ask, “Is that how an old man is supposed to act?”
I fill up the car at a gas station in Pennsylvania. The air is crisp, empty. I stretch my legs. I ask Thomas if he wants to also, but he says that he’d rather stay inside. He asks me why I didn’t bring any extra coats. I say, “I wasn’t planning on hitting you with my car.” Though Thomas’ nose and hands have stopped bleeding, his left eye is bruised. I tell myself that if he were in any real danger he would bleed more.
There is a large birch tree growing where the gas station asphalt meets a field. With the exception of Thomas and me, the station is empty. The attendant is absorbed in a magazine. As I climb over the small fence that separates asphalt from field, I use a branch from the tree to steady myself. On the other side, I sink into the ground, grab fistfuls of dirt, breathe.
When I get back into my car, Thomas is drinking a beer. “Where’d you get that?” I ask.
“Nicked it,” he says. “I never stole anything in my whole life. Nicked this bottle of gin too. You want
Thomas grunts. After a while, he says, “No one alive who’d sit shiva for me.” He rolls up his window. “Your mom must have been a good lady.”
“Maybe,” I say. “My mom was at Berkeley during the Vietnam War–”
Thomas interrupts me. He asks, “Both your mom and sister went to Berkeley?”
I nod, then I say, “My father told me that my mother was protesting the war and that my grandpa had to pick her up from college after she had been tear-gassed. …show more content…
I ask, “Is that how an old man is supposed to act?”
I fill up the car at a gas station in Pennsylvania. The air is crisp, empty. I stretch my legs. I ask Thomas if he wants to also, but he says that he’d rather stay inside. He asks me why I didn’t bring any extra coats. I say, “I wasn’t planning on hitting you with my car.” Though Thomas’ nose and hands have stopped bleeding, his left eye is bruised. I tell myself that if he were in any real danger he would bleed more.
There is a large birch tree growing where the gas station asphalt meets a field. With the exception of Thomas and me, the station is empty. The attendant is absorbed in a magazine. As I climb over the small fence that separates asphalt from field, I use a branch from the tree to steady myself. On the other side, I sink into the ground, grab fistfuls of dirt, breathe.
When I get back into my car, Thomas is drinking a beer. “Where’d you get that?” I ask.
“Nicked it,” he says. “I never stole anything in my whole life. Nicked this bottle of gin too. You want