Sometimes I wonder if they see me. These girls, these streams of hopeful eyes in tired faces, dreaming eyes, determined eyes, that pass here each night, each going home to meet whatever is really waiting – or maybe not waiting – to bump up against their expectations. Who am I to them? Just old Munya, who couldn’t possibly know their monthly ripening any more. Old Munya stands like a raisin. Old Munya forgot the tender rains and the dreams that come with waiting to burst forth. Old Munya doesn’t see their naked skin shimmering under the water, doesn’t hear the expanse or the strain in their whispered blessings that mix with the drip of water falling back into the warm mikvah pool from their wet heads. Old Munya doesn’t see the tears that masquerade as drops of water on a wet face, or how slow some of them are to leave the water and make way for the next one. An “eis ratzoin”, they say, when the Creator turns a kind ear. So Old Munya doesn’t hear their quiet entreaties leaking out from beneath hand-covered faces after the blessing, as the waves ripple the outline of hip and breast. Or so they think. When I stand above at the rail and look down at them, they lose their height. Their feet come out of their knees.
A new one, just married, comes in full like a breadbasket. “Don’t be shy,” I hear the older ones tell her in the waiting room. “Old Munya will take care of you.” Eyes shine and voice shakes. She...
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