The Last Sacred Cruse

shamash

the Temple was crumbling.

i started avoiding my prayers, studies and friends,

and spent interminable stretches of time in my room

by myself,

reading literature of ill-repute

and staring at the walls.

when i took out the clippers one night

for the first time in two years

and with a few flicks of the wrist,

held my own severed beard in my hands...

i saw the outline of my face that i'd forgotten

like an old friend who'd suddenly reappeared

and shocked me into remembering

who i was.

one

the Temple had fallen.

i imagined leaving my place,

pursuing the career i left behind with my degree.

i envisioned throwing off the yoke of avodah,

the blanket of emunah, and

living without any particular goal,

returning to the arbitrary world

of ownerlessness...

two

and then it was Chanukah

and then it was vacation

and then i davenned for the first time in two months

the most honest tefilah i could think of,

a simple plea

as i travelled up north by myself:

"Ribbono shel Olam... please let me meet someone tonight,

someone to help me kill the pain...

let her be just someone anonymous

who won't remember my name tomorrow,

won't want me to stay longer,

and won't want me to call.

"Mi L'Hashem Elai!"

three

and i prayed again for her on the dark, lonely pier

looking out over the Galillee

as if davenning for a last cruse of sacred oil:

"is she out there …?"

four

and she appeared moments after, calling my name.

calling my name because

she knew me,

she recognized my face,

she knew who i was.

five

and because she knew me,

and because she recognized my face,

and because she indeed knew who i was,

i could not kill the pain that night,

even after we got back to the hotel room

with the lights off,

my menorah lit again,

glowing with an inverted purpose...

six

because when she said no

and walked out of the room,

seven

i knew

that G-d had sent me my last cruse of sacred oil.

eight

and it burns today

more brightly than before.