I come from Survivors.
I am a thriver.
I eat the serrated green hills,
The gritty dunes,
The memory stones for breakfast
I brush away the tears of my grandmother’s Auschwitz,
Of Papa’s working camp,
Of pictures instead of people and of lost worlds–
With the shuk,
With a little shul, bursting in a basement, where the singing chimes of redemption.
I taste waterfalls and springs,
Stick my finger in the eye of fear in Hebron
Tuck my kids into California beds in bedrooms of controversy.
When we play hooky in holy caves
And shop and eat and argue and love after rockets and knives and resolutions
When we scrape our knees sliding down wildflower hillsides,
Dare to dream of moving lips in our holiest places and
Chip our teeth on new words in our souls’ native tongue
When we swerve from buses that count the omer and
Stand together in silence in our schools and streets and as a nation
And when we bless our son as he starts the army, loving hands trembling over his kippah
We only hope
They are watching
And that what we’ve done
That what we do
Is enough to make it worth it.