From buildings of downey white, your feathers rain down on me. I saw your name written in the stars one night and it’s on the top of my tongue but I just – can’t. It’s a life lost in translation, from the beating of your wings to the cracking of my hearts as I look down at you for the first time and you’re gone.
I’d make a joke and ask you if it hurt, you know, when you fell from Heaven, but I’m making an effort not to be crass.
When I was two, my mother told me I was going to be a big brother and nine months later, I was three and I realized that meant I’d have a little brother. I wonder if he ever saw your name through dusk’s wispy corridors, a connect-the-dots formed from torches I (will) carry. Somehow, I don’t think so.
Today, on this Day of Atonement, I have no convictions. Around me your feathers bleed into the Earth, a literal inscription into Etz Chayim, the Tree of Life, and I hope they have oceans wherever you go because even if fish don’t fly, and cats don’t dance, and birds don’t swim, you’re written in the stars.