The Mourner’s Kaddish

I hold the package close to me in hands

that shake with devastating cold. Alone.

I breathe, and tear the paper back to see

my siddur just like I remembered it.

I grab the note he tucked into its page

that reads—“I love you girl, so please enjoy.

Your dad.” I sit, legs sway. 

     A little girl

between the rows of tallit that hung on men’s 

shoulders. The sun, it danced through windows splashed

with dazzling color, the synagogue filled 

with ricocheting light. And I was dressed 

in Saturday best, and dad, he draped his jacket 

around my arms so I was warm. My feet 

they dangled short, too short to firmly plant 

below me then. And dad, he grabbed my little 

hand in his and sang the ancient Hebrew songs 

that flowed through bodies like the souls of those that are

gone. I found the meaning in meaningless words,

in music full and rich with grand emotion:

Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba, amen 

An ordinary day or so it seemed.

Our dining room was set for guests to come

that night, a feast for family with meat

and drink and expected joy. She sat, so grey, uncomfortable,

before us then. Zach’s hand in mine we talked

to her until she was no longer there.

Her eyes went dim, her mouth, it did not move.

I screamed—“Zach close your eyes don’t look come on.”

We ran. And grabbed my dad and brought him to

the black chair. b’alma di v’ra khir’utei

v’yamlikh malkhutei

Now, every august light a candle white,

held softly in the Hebrew words that warm

the dead. Recite b’hayeikhon u-v’yomeikhon

u-v’hayei d’khol beit yisrael 

So easy to forget perhaps but just

so hard to remember.

I light the candle by my bed, not white,

a slight shade of pink, her made up lips.

The flame it flickers kissing my forehead.

Ba-agula u-viz’man kariv, v’imru amen. 

Ali Herman grew up outside of Philadelphia, PA and studied journalism at Northwestern University. She is currently a medical student at the University of Michigan.