A trip to my old Shul neighborhood, now a millennium of miles away, past generations ago, a cemetery morgue of long forgotten memories, not accessible, banished. Excommunication of a navi, a shaman, a prophet. "Fear not, the nations that have banished you will be destroyed." Revenge is not a desire, re-established communications instead: wanting, seeking, desiring, needing, passionately hoping, davening, praying, never will be the story again. Times gone, shoes worn out, bleeding feet, never to see it again, never to be there again, driven out, shackled, too weak to walk. My spirit is there among the plaques of the dead who covered the hallway walls. Silence as my feet walk barefoot back there again, through the hallways, into the bathroom where I used to spray my hair and put on my lace. Sauntering over to the front, Her office in front, Her office upstairs. Silence again as I enter the Sanctuary, all eyes turn to see the Shabbat Bride, but they do not see me. Invisible, but my spirit is there everyday as they turn slowly around to open the doors on a Friday Shabbat night. She walks in as a bride, glistening in a golden and white long flowing gown. Gasping, they do not know who caused their prayers to come true. She was lame, She could barely walk: She was killed with kindness. I mourn Her everyday and cry real tears.
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