148 / 168
148
door until it reached the barrier of the carpet and sunk in. I burst
through to find my father curled up in the corner of the shower,
water cascading down his face as he sat gaping at the tiles. He was
clawing at his legs.
To my eight year old self it was hard to comprehend why my
father, my image of stability, would be collapsed in the shower,
breathing becoming more sporadic. I stepped into the shower and
cupped his cheeks inmy hands, silently brushing the hair fromhis eyes.
O
n my next visit
, I find my father staring out the bay window. I
place a bound copy of the story in his lap. He clumsily fingers the
pages and his eyes glaze over, welling up with… pride? Sadness?
‘I could not sleep a minute last night. When I sleep, I dream, I
dream, I dream.’
He lifted his aged face towards me, the sunlight streaming in,
catching the dust and causing it to dance and flicker around him.
‘I have tried to express all that I saw in my youth, all that made my
world so dark. Maybe you have finally done it yourself.’
‘
Di pen shist erger fun a fayl.
’ The pen stings worse than the arrow.
A faint smile plays across my father’s lips – the first in a long time.
‘Would you take me to Muter?’
It is hard to conceal my obvious shock. I enclose his frail hands in
mine, tracing the wrinkles that carve out lines through his palm, and
lead him to the door.
T
he
sun
beats down on Mumah’s grave, the granite flecks
iridescent and sparkling under the heat. The brown mountains flow
in the distance like a roller coaster, forming an unbreakable chain
that frames my view. I wheel Pa until he is directly in front of Ma’s
grave and he unfurls the crumpled story from his breast pocket. He
commences reading my story, his story, in a hushed voice, barely
audible, as if only speaking to the lingering spirit of Mumah. He
pauses on some words, holding them in his mouth before he speaks,
like he is contemplating and savouring them. Together we sit,
alternating lines until the sun creaks at the horizon, the sky awash in
a vivid red. As the wind whispers past, Pa starts singing a Yiddish
lullaby from when I was a child. His voice carries the words across
the field like honey, rippling sweetly through the air.
‘
My Story,
His Story
12