Still I Can't Cry

11 things after a massacre of Jews

1. I open the entryway closet and take out my tallit, the one I bought after standing at the Wall for the first and only time, where I openly wept with relief and yearning and a never wanting to leave again.

2. I open my browser. An assault of news. An assault of faces, images, horror, time like those wooden Jacob’s ladders folding and unfolding. An assault of two sides-ism. An assault of sorrow. An assault of normalcy. An assault of blame. An assault of justification. An assault of silence.

3. I open my heart. Then close it again. I am not ready.

4. I walk through the door to the sanctuary. It is already open and familiar faces greet me. The rabbi is sitting on a chair in the front. His presence guts me, accompanies me, reflects something I am not ready to face or name.

5. I open Instagram. Jews crying out: See our pain. Others, othering. Others, so many, people in my own circles, saying, this is the price you pay, you did this. I delete the app from my phone.

6. I open my email. More comments than anything I've written in a long time on my piece from Monday morning. Witness. Care. Humanity. Friendship. Solidarity. Acknowledgment. Community. Surprises, who is there. And who isn't.

7. I open the dictionary. "A massacre is an event of killing people who are not engaged in hostilities or are defenseless. A massacre is generally considered to be morally unacceptable, especially when perpetrated by a group of political actors against defenseless victims. The word is a loan of a French term for 'butchery' or 'carnage.'"

8. I open the fridge door and get out the half-and-half. Strong coffee. It's still dark outside.

9. I open a history book. And another. And another. And another. No one wants the Jews. Where are we supposed to go? This is not self-pity. Nor will I temper it, soften it, equivocate, minimize. Not here. Not right now. There may be a door for that. I slide down to the floor, my back to that door. Still I can't cry.

10. I open the matches and remove one to strike against the side of the box. The flame goes up and with it, a wordless prayer. A prayer to what, to whom? All of us, all of us.

11. I open my mouth to speak, half-expecting a river of wailing, half-expecting a scorching fire. One will not extinguish the other.

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