My holidays
Are celluloid fruit
Suspended from the ceiling
Of my succa
Where the Ushpizin sit alone.
A mock Seder in a Russian school
Songs, matza, potatoes and eggs
Then they go home to the real thing.
I don’t.
This is my real make-believe life.
Pinch me hard so I will wake up
And see the fruit taking colour
Dolls turning into relatives
Coming over for tea
Silence growing sounds
My songs earning volume
The optical illusion I call a family
Hugging itself to fullness
My mute home, shrivelled in silence
Filling with guests
Breaking through the void
Left when the door closed.
I’m watching the face in the mirror
Making sure I don’t turn celluloid
Just for a few more hours.
Wake me up to nurse
Ask me for a story
Or a clean skirt
Let me put on the show for you
Just a little longer.
Let us play house
Until one day you realize:
“Mommy, I feel left out
When the men
Are dancing with the Torah.”
