Bsd
I've been silent
no prayers,
no poems,
silent and lost in my own world
attempting to locate the next step
and take it.
I've been tempted
to break my silence
to speak out
about things that entertain me
worry me
annoy me
comfort me.
I haven't.
But this?
How can I not speak?
I spent the first night that I knew what happened
alone.
In a place where no one spoke.
Surrounded by Jews,
all of whom owe so much to Chabad,
and they were silent.
They were silent?
They were silent!
How can I not speak?
Tears rolling down my cheeks
hurting so much
wanting only to move on
return to the petty, silly distractions
that had silenced me before.
Ignore it like a paper cut.
But this is no superficial wound.
This is my family.
I held a soft and lively baby this Shabbos.
I read about a baby whose pants were soaked in his parents' blood.
My nephew's age.
I read about a woman covered in a tallis.
The last act of a loving husband.
Covering his slaughtered wife's body.
How could this happen?
How could this happen,
and I remain silent?
Silent not only in word,
but in deed.
All the pain in the world I express
will do nothing for a mother
prematurely torn from her children.
For families bereaved.
For a community destroyed.
Gabi and Rivka don't care if I write a poem.
The silence they wish me to break
is far deeper than that of words.
In memory of Rabbi Gabriel and Rivka Holtzberg, in their zechus, so that we may greet Moshaich this year, and reunite parents and children, I take upon myself to daven every day.
