The rabbi calls to ask how many chairs you will need.
You hold the phone against your chest and turn to your brother to ask, but see he is deeply involved in a conversation about bridge rolls.
“Fifty,” you say, and accidentally end the call, so you hear the rabbi saying, “Every night?” as you hang up, and this means you say, “Yes, every night” to no one, and simultaneously find yourself wondering if the rabbi is single, because his voice is nice. Deep.
Two weeks ago, you were eating bridge rolls with your mum.
“Does anyone eat these outside funerals these days?” you asked, because that was the only time you ever saw them, and you wondered if a food, like a dinosaur, can become extinct.
“I eat them,” she said, although, to be fair, she ate anything.
Push the memory back down. Down. Down.
What if you could write one true thing?
What if you could write about how, when she was in the hospital, you wished for it to be over, whilst at the same time wishing it would never be over? The twin urges fighting within you selfishly, and neither being anything to do with the person suffering. All about you. Always all about you.
“Is it time now?” your brother asks, standing up. It is kind of funny to see him in a suit, but also it is not.
You think it isn’t time, but you say it is, because neither of you wants...
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