I do not know if he lived but like the monsters under my bed, he was real enough to touch me. His name was Borach to me. He used to keep carp in the bathtub. He used to make sauerkraut in the closet. I don’t know if he did that but it happened. He sneezed so hard that it shot him into the next Passover. I don’t know if he could walk but he followed me. Uncle Borach is my uncle and yet still was never there.
My name is silence. The silence of the doctor as he walked in. The silence as they understood he would not be born. The silence of the phone line as she learned she was not a grandmother. The silence of the ride home.
You assembled me with great care and patience like a ship in a bottle. You made me a fine coat with matching pants with pockets like yours. The only difference was that I was not in mine.
There is a man on the corner of 87th and Amsterdam. I do not know him, and he does not know me. He wears a red tee-shirt with red sweatpants. He wears a red coat with red shoes. He wears a red ski mask on his face.
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