beginning, God created the water and the land,” she repeats, continuing the prayer as she rinses Mama’s head seven times.
Grandmother washes every bit of Mama’s body, removing the dirt from under her nails and sponging the folds of tissue in the private place between her legs. “Everyone should go from life unencumbered and pure,” she tells me. “I am anointing her for the beyond.” I follow her, moving the bucket as she goes, but I keep a respectful silence. When the washing is finished, Grandmother picks up a cloth cap. “Take one last look at your mother,” she says.
Mama’s face is as dewy as a child’s. “She looks peaceful,” I say.
“The dead are happier than the living,” Grandmother replies. As she covers Mama’s face, I look away so as not to see the moment I lose her forever.
“You’re a good girl, Leah,” she says as she puts two eggs in a small pot on the hearth. “Very brave.” While we wait for the water to simmer, she tells me to strip down to the chemise under my dress. When I have done so, she takes the tip of a knife and tears the fabric over my heart.
“It’s called kriah. Jews wear clothing torn this way as a sign of mourning. Don’t take this off for seven days, and the next time I see you, I’ll help you mend it, so no one ever has to know.” She helps me wiggle back into my dress. “Normally we would tear your outer garment, but it’s obvious why we can’t do that.”
The eggs rattle in the boiling water, and when they are done, she peels them and lays them on a plate alongside a few olives and a slice of bread.
I go to the table, but she motions me to sit on the floor. “It’s part of our mourning. For the next week, I will do this at home and ask God to accept that I am also sitting shiva for you. But since we are alone now, you can do it properly at least once.”
We sit on the floor and eat what she tells me is the traditional meal of eggs, olives, and bread. Through our tears, we share stories about my mother, and though I think my throat is too tight to eat, I manage to swallow my share. “You see, my Leah,” she says, pointing to my empty plate, “life does go on. Min hashamayin tenuhamu.” She pats my knee. “May you be comforted from heaven.”
A thought comes to me, and I get up. “I know something that would please Mama.”
I take the knife Grandmother used to cut my chemise and cut a small strand of my mother’s hair. Taking a piece of white cloth and colored ribbon from her sewing basket, I wrap the hair into a package.
“What will you do with that?” Grandmother asks me.
“Come with me tonight and you’ll see.”
Then I think of something else. I run to the front door, take down the crucifix, and pull out the tiny scroll. I lodge it into Mama’s curled fingers and put the cross back on the wall.
When my father returns with the coffin, Mama is placed inside, not in a shroud, as Grandmother had hoped, but in a dress, as if she is just off to market instead of returning to the Holy One’s earth. I check before the lid is nailed shut to make sure the scroll is still there, clutched in her hand until the Messiah comes.
***
Within a few days, our future is decided. Papa says the pain of Sevilla is too great for him, and he will take his position with Prince Henry as soon as he can get his affairs in order. Luisa can’t go with Papa because he doesn’t know how he will take care of her in Raposeira, and he needs me with him at court rather than home with her. “May I board at the convent?” Luisa asks, grabbing Papa’s sleeve. “Please? Lots of girls do!”
Susana is still getting used to running a house, and her belly is already beginning to swell with the baby she is expecting. She seems relieved not to have to take Luisa in, assuring my father how easy it will be to look out for her and bring her home from time to time for a visit. Papa balks at the idea of leaving his youngest child without a mother or father, but Luisa
Grandmother washes every bit of Mama’s body, removing the dirt from under her nails and sponging the folds of tissue in the private place between her legs. “Everyone should go from life unencumbered and pure,” she tells me. “I am anointing her for the beyond.” I follow her, moving the bucket as she goes, but I keep a respectful silence. When the washing is finished, Grandmother picks up a cloth cap. “Take one last look at your mother,” she says.
Mama’s face is as dewy as a child’s. “She looks peaceful,” I say.
“The dead are happier than the living,” Grandmother replies. As she covers Mama’s face, I look away so as not to see the moment I lose her forever.
“You’re a good girl, Leah,” she says as she puts two eggs in a small pot on the hearth. “Very brave.” While we wait for the water to simmer, she tells me to strip down to the chemise under my dress. When I have done so, she takes the tip of a knife and tears the fabric over my heart.
“It’s called kriah. Jews wear clothing torn this way as a sign of mourning. Don’t take this off for seven days, and the next time I see you, I’ll help you mend it, so no one ever has to know.” She helps me wiggle back into my dress. “Normally we would tear your outer garment, but it’s obvious why we can’t do that.”
The eggs rattle in the boiling water, and when they are done, she peels them and lays them on a plate alongside a few olives and a slice of bread.
I go to the table, but she motions me to sit on the floor. “It’s part of our mourning. For the next week, I will do this at home and ask God to accept that I am also sitting shiva for you. But since we are alone now, you can do it properly at least once.”
We sit on the floor and eat what she tells me is the traditional meal of eggs, olives, and bread. Through our tears, we share stories about my mother, and though I think my throat is too tight to eat, I manage to swallow my share. “You see, my Leah,” she says, pointing to my empty plate, “life does go on. Min hashamayin tenuhamu.” She pats my knee. “May you be comforted from heaven.”
A thought comes to me, and I get up. “I know something that would please Mama.”
I take the knife Grandmother used to cut my chemise and cut a small strand of my mother’s hair. Taking a piece of white cloth and colored ribbon from her sewing basket, I wrap the hair into a package.
“What will you do with that?” Grandmother asks me.
“Come with me tonight and you’ll see.”
Then I think of something else. I run to the front door, take down the crucifix, and pull out the tiny scroll. I lodge it into Mama’s curled fingers and put the cross back on the wall.
When my father returns with the coffin, Mama is placed inside, not in a shroud, as Grandmother had hoped, but in a dress, as if she is just off to market instead of returning to the Holy One’s earth. I check before the lid is nailed shut to make sure the scroll is still there, clutched in her hand until the Messiah comes.
***
Within a few days, our future is decided. Papa says the pain of Sevilla is too great for him, and he will take his position with Prince Henry as soon as he can get his affairs in order. Luisa can’t go with Papa because he doesn’t know how he will take care of her in Raposeira, and he needs me with him at court rather than home with her. “May I board at the convent?” Luisa asks, grabbing Papa’s sleeve. “Please? Lots of girls do!”
Susana is still getting used to running a house, and her belly is already beginning to swell with the baby she is expecting. She seems relieved not to have to take Luisa in, assuring my father how easy it will be to look out for her and bring her home from time to time for a visit. Papa balks at the idea of leaving his youngest child without a mother or father, but Luisa
Similar Books
