20.10.2025

Oh, this precious thing

This old, stained, banged-

Up brass tray, marked with 

Permanent footprints from my 

Mother's Shabbos candlesticks

And a small, round, nickel-sized

Imperial Russian seal, 

That looks like an ancient coin 

And captivated me as a girl

This tray that my 

Bubbe's bubbe carried 

All the way to the New World from Minsk

(Or maybe it was Pinsk?)

This thing, that

Like an archaeologist, I've 

Carefully extracted with an exacto-knife

From layers, and layers of bubble wrap 

And now hold tight, to my chest,

The wetness on my cheek, 

Surprising even me

Hundreds of years

Generations of daughters, 

And mothers, and bubbes

Now here with me,

The last of the line

Pressed hard to my heart, 

This culmination of dreams

Each year, we would say

"לשנה הבאה בירושלים!"

"Next year, in Jerusalem!"

And even now, it's hard to believe, that 

Here I am

And you are now here with me

(Maybe not Jerusalem, 

But only a short train ride away) 

And though I've not brought forth a 

Daughter, 

Who will stand one day, like we

A white kerchief on her head, and

Sweet prayers on her lips,

And sadly, I know that this 

Tray, and all of our ghosts 

Will inevitably end 

Up in some junk shop, someday

But for now, at least,

This Friday night

I'll stand in my livingroom 

Wooden matches in my hand

(White kerchief on my head

Sweet prayers on my lips)

And you will stand beside me

In this Land of all our dreams, 

And finally fulfill 

The promise we had made.