Over the Rooftops of Time: Jewish Stories, Essays, Poems

Crossing Over

Crossing Over When my first child tore loose from me the old woman cautioned: Bite off her nails with your teeth and bury them in the earth. In the fall of that year the feet of Abraham went overhead—Isaac his son at his side, the wood for the burnt offering sprouting leaves at one end, root hairs at the other. And the fire in the father’s hands sent up its bright alphabet, a signal to Sarah. 1 6 1 In the narrow passage between intent and act, the angel’s call and the confusion of the ram. Here, on our side in the Feast of Booths the trees have put out too much fruit as though after the long drought they might not survive: black walnuts, acorns not yet ripe, tough capsules propelled through the air without letup; the knobs leave their imprint on the soles of our feet. In the firmament between worlds the guardian of invalid prayers—those uttered with the lips, the heart dragging behind—urges us to delay awhile. What doors must close before this one can open? And which angel rises up through the brickwork of sapphire to bid farewell to this child torn out of the distance like the leaf of the ash I tear off to find in back of each green shape a seed trawling in the morning light. 1 6 2 OVER THE ROOFTOPS OF TIME ...