Welcome to Labrys, your student-run art and literature collective of Smith College.

אבָּר ַ הּמֵׁש ְ שׁדַּקַתְִיְו לדַַּּגתְִי.
הּתוּכ ֵ לְמ ַ ְךילִמְַיְו הּתוּע ֵ רְכ ִ ארָב ְ ידּ ִ אמָלְעָּבְ

The stick-on glittery red fingernail on her right pointer finger claws tenderly at the letters, massaging the phonetic rhythm from the page. Just below her knuckle nestles a silver ring with the pendant perched slightly off center. I avoid eye contact. My gaze drifts to the plain plaster ceiling and back again. From here the view is restricted to a sideways sliver. I cannot see the white lace curtain, but I know it is there. I know it will slide open like a bride throwing back her veil as the congregation rises. Inside, three Torah scrolls are propped like a straight-backed royal family waiting in their thrones. Their glossy wooden handles are draped in a velvet cape. The delicate parchment underneath waits to be read via a small metallic proxy to the human touch. All around me, cushioned pews give way to plastic folding chairs. The room is packed with once-a-year devotees. The icebox air dances circles through the crossing and uncrossing of legs, causing flutters of shawls and pages. The corners of the space hum with the anticipation of communal introspection.

ידּ ִ אמָלְעָּבְ,בירִָק ןמְַזבוּ ִ אלָָגעֲּב ַ לאֵרשָ יִ יבּ ֵ לכָד ְ יֵּיחַבוּ ְ ןוכימוי ֵ בוּ ְ ןוכיֵּיחַּבְ ןמאָ ֵ וּרמְאְִו

In an effort to coax my brain away from due dates and to-do lists, I drop my gaze back to my immediate surroundings. My soft focus settles on the stranger next to me with the silver ring. I construct my character from stolen glances at cherry-lollipop fingernails: pointing out a section of the Yizkor brochure, affectionately poking at the dead. So many names so many names so many names. Not a wail of grief, but an acknowledgement of a sad, inevitable fact. I nod. There is something about the purple of her Tallit, the gentle exaggerated poof of her hair, and the roundness of her frame that makes me want to tell her what I’ve lost.

אָּימַלְע ָ ימֵלְעָלוּ ְ םלַעָל ְ ְךרַבָמ ְ אבָּר ַ הּמֵׁש ְ אהְֵי

I’m distracted by motion to my right and glance sideways. Two years my junior, but several inches taller, my friend sits next to me. I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she absentmindedly spins the milky-white piercing on her left nostril. It is new: slightly red around the edges and slightly foreign to the touch. She fiddles with her necklace too. A golden Jewish star with barely noticeable indents where the Swarovski crystals fell out. Her dark jacket, tights and boots come together at the point of her right big toe as it tap-tap-taps the air beside her left knee. She is thinking about the homework she needs to finish. She checks the time. Her spirituality is strictly scheduled for before noon. ְ

אָּימַלְע ָ ימֵלְעָלוּ ְ םלַעָל ְ ְךרַבָמ ְ אבָּר ְ ללָּהַתְִיְו הלֶּעַתְִיְו רדָּהַתְִיְו אשַּנתְִיְו םמור ַ תְִיְו ראַפָּתְִיְו חבַּּתַׁשְִיְו ְךרַּבָתְִי אוּה ְךירִּב ְ אשָׁ דְֻקדּ ְ הּמֵׁש

Marcia - my adopted Jewish grandmother - sits in the row in front of me, but when she shifts her weight I can see her hands. Her fingers tremble just slightly. Blue veins softened and saturated with age are speckled white with the chill that scuttles through the pews. It is unseasonably cold. In front of both of us, muted bouquets sprout from manicured ridges of the off-white carpet. The snowflake canvas is offset by hazelnut woodwork. A pulpit, a bema, and a backdrop of intertwining ladders curving towards the arc. Bleached fingers reach up to touch the brooch that used to belong to her mother. It’s still in place and her relief is audible. Shaped like a
shofar, it fastens the sides of her shawl together like the two ends of the year meeting at the curve of a small, hunched shoulder blade. The shawl is the same buttermilk color as the wispy frizz of her hair. She does not sing loudly or often. Occasionally I catch her mouthing the words, revealing speckles of run-away red lipstick on her lightly chattering teeth. ְ

ְ ןרי ָ מִאֲּד ַ אתָמָחֱֶנְו אתָחָּבְׁשְ תּ ֻ אתָרי ָ שְִׁו אתָכָרְּב ִ לכּ ָ ןמ ִ אלָּעֵל ןמאָ ֵ וּרמְאְִו .אמָלְעָּב

Tap-tap-tap on the bema as the cantor chants. She has become the human metronome fora wavering cacophony of voices. A silvery headband guides dark brown curls away from her forehead and plays the tiny chimes of her dangling earrings. A moonlit waterfall shawl cascades over her shoulders and down her back. And yet, she is not an ethereal being. The molding of her face and solidity of her build remind us that she is human. It’s a good thing too. Otherwise, when she opens her mouth we might forget. It is her song that carries the potential to divert attention away from shivering hands, unfinished course-work, and plastic fingernails. Her chanting sings us out of reality and into this moment. We contribute our varied tones, our adventurous pitches, and and our fragmented Hebrew to the communal song. ְ

ֵ וּרמְאְִו .לאֵרשָ יִ לכּ ָ לעְַו וּנילֵע ָ םיִּיחְַו אָּימַׁש ְ ןמ ִ אבָּר ַ אמָלָׁש ְ אהְֵי ןמאָ

It is then that I catch sight of her. She is standing off to the side. An elderly woman, but you wouldn’t know it from her strong posture and gently wrinkled skin. The spiderwebs that cloud her brain are not externally visible. My mother’s mother. She catches my eye, smiles and mumbles the words that Alzheimer’s could never quite erase. The melody imprints itself in her brain like messages on a whiteboard wiped clean of color, readable only in glossy periphery. She is wearing her “shmata” dress- the blue patterned one that she refuses to give up. No, that can’t be right. She never wears that out of the house. This is a fancier outfit fit for a holiday. Mom must have set it out last night so she wouldn’t get confused. Her hair is soft silver like condensed moonlight, and stray wisps alight just above her unpierced ears. The draft shuttles the scent of lemons and dusty book covers towards my nose. There’s another scent too: floral in tone and texture. I’m holding roses. Did she pick them as a gift? The thorns prick slightly with each new verse, drawing blood the color of petals before they fade. No, these are not for me. Two roses for her garden and four Irises for her name. I’ve brought them in the hopes of tracing the familiar ridges of her palm as I pass her the bouquet. This is a special occasion. The first time she has ventured beyond her spot under the tree for three years. No, it’s not possible. I close my eyes and see dried flower petals dancing across an engraved stone. ְ

לאֵרשָ יִ לכּ ָ לעְַו וּנילֵע ָ םולשׁ ָ השעֲַי אוּה וימור ָ מְּב ִ םולשׁ ָ השוע ןמאָ ֵ וּרמְאְִו