his shivering life

He thought back. To an earlier time. But the memory was fragmented. In pieces. Colliding with other memories. Just out of reach. Accessible to him only during rapid eye movement. In a room. No. In the womb. During a full moon. In June. Yes. That was the memory. In the womb. He recalled. Something. Somebody. Shouting. Then hushed whispers. Being yelled at. Then whispered to. How lonely. Rapid breathing. Heart beating. Sweats. Panic. Gasp of breath. Alone. Shouts and whispers. Then silence. The sound of a clock? Or the beating of a heart? A song? Voices in discord? No harmony. No melody, either. And minimal rhythm. But sounds nonetheless. Guttural sounds. Guzzling sounds. Guy sounds.

Even though my birth certificate says Easter Sunday, it was Good Friday that day. The rabbi had to drive in from Teaneck to perform the bris. He had a bad back. Garlic breath. His eyes kept blinking because he’d just been fitted with contact lenses. Said he didn’t think they were ground right. Everyone said he looked like he was crying when he snipped off my foreskin. I for damn sure was. That much I remember. Nerves for days down there. And Rabbi Watery Eyes deadens the sensation for me forever. The family celebrates. Hard salami served on rye bread. Chopped chicken liver. Herring. Lox. Bagels. Bialys. Chala. Cream cheese. Kosher dills. Manischewitz wine. Schnapps. Hear all about it! Secular Jew born on Good Friday (or Easter Sunday), take your pick, who wants to argue?