The Prayer Shawl (Dedicated to Pinchas Gutter)

The Prayer Shawl

The ghetto. The men pray behind hidden walls. 

Approaching feet, pounding the pressed pavement like distant "thunder. 

I am hidden. A father surrounds his son in his prayer shawl; holds him to his heart, Mumbling a prayer. 

In this fetal-like embrace, the boy's pounding heart slows, as the outside world dissolves.

Again, now the death march. 

The boy, now alone remembers his father's overwhelming presence.

 Feels the prayer shawl. Feels it softly caressing his paper thin body.

 He summons his strength. The strength of his father and resolutely continues on. Safe. Hidden.

Years later, on the bimah, Chanting the Sh'ma, He surrounds his head and shoulders with his own prayer shawl: his face rosy with age. 

The congregation fading into the pure, simple sound of his voice: my voice. His father's voice. The voice of the past, and the voice of what will be. 

The old, and the young wailing in a holy orchestra of human compassion.

The boy was me. My father's prayer shawl encircling my very memories. 

Through the shawl: my hidden wall, I feel the world, a harmonious place. 

I am safe once more.