I find it particularly hilarious that they call you Lucifer, because you apparently glow in the dark. Like a transfer protein. Because you are stowed away, along the folds of a pocket notebook. And forgotten. And re-invented. And re-discovered in your glory 47 years later. You came from a damp rural town in eastern Norway. And sank into Brooklyn till they took you out from the corridor. Lifeless and pale. Your hands folded in the shape of your flag. And your frozen lips in a perpetual smile. Blue gray and particularly cracked. I stared into your open eye -you forgot to shut the lids before you died - and there was hollowness and history. That was my first encounter with lifelessness.
The Rabbi that day tormented me for my garment. And my lack of prayer. He compared me to a water lily and stroked his beard fourteen times before reading a poem in Hebrew. I sneezed at the congregation, and shut myself into a box of gelatin, with the kippah falling off my head, and my skin becoming brittle.
Today, I walked into a lake by the scientists' cafeteria, and sat in the middle of it, counting the number of honeybees buzzing around the library. There were five. And one on the ground. There was a couple holding hands, wrestling like maniacs. Her name was Athena and his was Elijah. They were married when they were 10 in a refugee camp in the far East. She left a trail of tears as she walked back to her motor car. I ran over and traced the water trail to a bathroom, where I found a smear of blood. On the wall, it said, Unborn Child #9.
