Israel 2

At a concert in several languages I could not understand,
a friend interpreted the following story told by the singer
to make meaning of the next song. There are too many layers
to be counted, a veritable trifle of confusion.

My uncle was a gentleman to the end. He visited his wife three days before her death in the hospital, dressed impeccably. She was losing her hair, only 35 kilos and hadn't been out of bed in months. He walked in, took off his hat in respect, and said to her, "Yahel, if you weren't my wife, I'd take you dancing and ask you to marry me." So should we all.

All I could think is did her veins stand out? And so,

he began singing in, the gutteral "Ch" noises calling to
someone to explain. I could not, so I sad, eyes welling up,
hoping this translation in strings, and notes, and songs
and salt made enough sense. I wondered when someone
would want to take me dancing. In a wave of fanfair,
cigarettes and words that made meaning to everyone
but me, I could only think about myself. A sea of together
and one note, atonal and confused. What if this song
was joyful, and all I could do is be a million miles

from my plastic seat and cry because of a picture on a bookshelf
of two people sitting on the moon? He, too, would have
taken her dancing. What if this song was a funeral dirge
and all I could hear was Pachabel from forty-six years ago?
She too, wore a crown, but self-proclaimed. But what if
this was the perfect song, to sing about our whispering moment
at the Mill and I didn't know?

Then the final note was sounded and amidst the claps,
which surely meant thank you, I whispered todah, which
was the only word I knew.