Aleveh Shalom

We all hate Maine, my mother and I, where I was born. My stolid Jewish father had a breakdown there, losing his mind and his father’s life in the living room of an Auburn house heaped in snow. Do you remember, my mother asks? My father was such a different person then, even-tempered and more active than obsessive. I only know my father by hands and voice, fleshy tension smells and little notes signed with sardonic smiley faces. What is there to write about my father, I do not know him, and my mother’s hearsay makes shoddy evidence. I have a sister who hugs him in family pictures. A self-imposed/enforced restraining order. An audio-tape to listen to after he dies. It’s 13 years old, the tape, he made it when I was 12 or 13—the tape’s not dated, just sealed neatly into an envelope labeled “From Papa” with a note telling me to listen to it after he dies. That’s how he handed it to me. A little package in a white business envelope, note attached. It came with a tear-smudged papa-story and frequent reminders to listen to it as soon as possible. He wasn’t dying. I can’t remember if I showered afterwards. After hearing my name on this spoken-word death-letter pseudo-suicide-note, addressed specifically to me from a man who was supposed to be resting in peace. Aleveh shalom.