Burning Cigarettes

My father exists to memorialize the bite of his mother’s voice, her bitter mentholated exhales, too stern for sighs. My father may love her; he flew back for the funeral, and later, I think maybe, the memorial. Or maybe not; he doesn’t like his sisters plurally. Jews don’t put down the tombstone the capstone the grave marker granite what have you at funerals, no, the body is shroud-wrapped and buried, pine coffin in naked ground and nameless earth. Hebrew prayers muttered from transliterations and the ritual handful of earth; Jews don’t throw flowers, nothing else covers the newly anonymous dead. Only after a year is the memorial marker pulled into place, the final service held. Jews take a long time to say good-bye to the dead we rush to bury. Plant trees, burn candles, and leave pebbles on their grave at every visit. Not knowing the date of her death I forget why the yartzeit candle is waiting for me. I am waiting for the year my father forgets to light it, forgets to remember the end of my grandmother’s reign. If I don’t know the date I can’t forget her. Jews don’t believe in heaven, I mostly don’t believe in heaven, but if she’s there it’s full of ashtrays.