REGRET

First. The feeling of cold water over my hands. Water on my face, diamond rivulets spilling down my skin. And: blessed are You, Lord, who sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us for washing our hands. The words fall out of my mouth in an awkward sort of tumble, bleeding, crushed under the weight of years of forgetting. I try my best to say them and believe them. Sometimes my efforts aren’t enough.

Second. A different weight. Your name on my lips. This, I try harder to forget. A blessing followed by a curse. It’s a curse that I remember you even when I forget to pray. That you will always occupy some part of what I can call mine. 

Third. The dawn is never careful. Light spilling into my eyes. Bless the dawn, too. Bless the world. Bless everything other than you, and curse the fact that this always comes back to you. You are all of my thoughts now. It’s everything you ever wanted. Is this your blessing? 

RENOUNCE

Think of the priests of old. Look at you. Lamb’s blood and the taste of the sky after rain. You gave the blessings for the first time this year. Told me you were scared, told me you didn’t believe. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know what it is to give a blessing and not believe. It’s a cruel story that you have the title and not the faith. 

I saw your soul through your eyes and there was an absence. Empty, whole, silent and screaming. I’m sorry. I understood your fear of being and not being right. I understood what it was to be a creature of doubt. But I believed. I always have. 

REVEAL

There is a blessing to be said on beauty. The first time I said it, I said it on the sky and I thought of you.

Because of the way your body unfolded into the grass. Slack lines and thin limbs. A Renaissance painting, struggling to catch your breath from laughter. You looked up at me. Your eyes green as the surface of the sea. Green as the grass you sat on. You were beautiful. You are beautiful. You looked as confident as the clouds opening in bloom. Your hands. Reverential, gentle, open. The marble smoothness of your back. You looked so vulnerable. 

Your mouth opened in a smile. Mine opened in a prayer.

RECONCILE

Breath spilling deeply out of your lungs, brushing my cheek. Your face cast half in shadow. You asked me how can you believe, after everything? 

How could you not? I told you I believed because of you, and so it was. The truth is that I believed because I didn’t know what else I could do with myself. I have never known anything but believing. 

I didn’t believe because of you. I believed in you. And that is a difference that I think you will never understand.

REPAIR

I spent sleepless nights praying for you. Sitting upright on the bed, hands knotted into the sheets. Any prayer I could think of. I filled my room with words, saying what I knew you wouldn’t. Psalm 130. A song of ascents. Out of the depths I cry to You, Lord. Lord, hear my voice. A deep breath. Hamalach hagoel oti micol ra, yivarech et hane’arim…

Psalm 130. Hamalach hagoel, for safety. Vehu rachum, for mercy. Psalm 121, for aid. Refa’enu, for healing. 

Psalm 130. Hamalach hagoel. Vehu rachum. Psalm 121. Refa’enu.

Again.

The dawn broke and I kept praying.

RESOLVE

From the first moment I was breathing your lies. It’s easier to be blind when it’s you blocking out the sun. I know you didn’t mean it. You don’t have to explain. You thought we were alike because we had known the same life. I’m telling you now: the difference between us is that it took your faith from you and it gave my faith to me. I believe because I was made whole again. Don’t tell me that you thought this would work because we both knew that it wouldn’t. Don’t tell me because I don't want to hear it. But I still want to hear your voice. I miss you. And I am sorry. And I hope this didn’t hurt you as much as it did me. 

Last. The water and your name and the dawn. Don’t worry. I still remember you.