a quiet neurotic bedtime

Nana stood by the picture window, staring out into the thickening fog.

 

“The day I was born,” she said.  “I’m sure I sighed in despair…I’m certain I did.”

 

I heard a door close behind me. It was my mother, lying in bed without an expression.

 

The wind started to pick up.  So did the rain.

 

Nana said she was going out to visit Papa, who was buried in the backyard underneath the old oak tree.

 

“But it’s storming out,” I said.

 

She shrugged, “It doesn’t matter.”

 

She picked up her Bible and walked outside, without a raincoat or an umbrella.

 

I decided to join her.

 

As we stood under that oak tree, (I noticed the caterpillars had just begun to feed on the newly emerging leaves), she read from the Book of Job. And when she got to the part where God let Job know He was only testing him and that he was going to reward Job with twice the wealth and more children, Nana just shook her head and said, “I can’t figure out why this ending pisses me off so much!”

 

We went back inside.

 

She lit some birthday candles in the corner of the living room. “I don’t have any Yortsayt candles.”

 

I bowed my head.

 

She recited a blessing in Hebrew and then an English proverb: “The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord.”

 

Meanwhile, my mother awoke from a nightmare and came into the living room, rubbing her eyes.

 

She looked at Nana, yawned, belched, lit a Pall Mall, and said, “Mom, that was a terrific speech.”

 

That’s when the power went out.

 

We stood by the light of those birthday candles, in dead silence, sizing up the dark and shying away from pushing ourselves to the limit.