On a Thursday in November
I reach into my box of winter clothes
dig around for gold
and find my favorite top –
teal blue and rust, white swirls like waves
I slip it over my head
And stand in the mirror
Ready to shop for Shabbos, go to an appointment,
get the kugel recipe from my friend
There.
Right there.
Still there
Almost imperceptible in the busy swirls
is the tiny blue ribbon
right over my heart
I press my hand
Over the ribbon
too smooth
too soft
too perfectly curved
into the shape that has burned into our eyes
I remember that cold night last November
Five of us sat outside eating fish and chips.
A tiny blue ribbon twisted on her lapel.
She handed one to each of us.
We spoke only of hostages, soldiers, boots and blankets, funerals and shivas.
On a Thursday in November
I stand in the mirror
I remember the hope we held —
it would be short
we would win
no more would die
Hope buried in the box of winter clothes
these endless months
Stashed with the sweaters, it got old and stale
Burned with holes of doubt
Ruined by faces of boys on the day they became men –
beret just so, immortal eyes, smile bright as love
I take a breath and look at the ribbon,
still there
Naava
Orit
The twins
still there
Shlomo
Eitan
Gadi
Kfir
still there
(Hersh.
Oh, Hersh.)
Souls nothing less than my daughters or sons
Still there
somewhere, where
Where?
I have my shopping list in my pocket
I have a car in the driveway
We will have sourdough and jalapeno dip
We might even sing
On this Friday night in November
I promise you, blue ribbon
I won’t just mumble their names when I light
I won’t just skim the parashah for Daniella bat Orly
before Rumme-Kube with my daughter
before drifting off under my comforter
warm
protected
safe
On a Thursday in November
I hold all of them
those that were there, those that are
against my heart
As I take my list and drive
down the quiet, late morning street
Peeking up at the sky
wondering how it can be so blue
so beautiful
today
