I have been declared dead. Not medically, I’m not really dead. Not physically anyway. But someone is sitting shiva for me.

It’s strange. Hearing the ancient Aramaic extolling God’s great name echoing my own name in the mouth of someone I loved. Love, really. 

Always will love her, even as she shovels the dirt over me, even as I feel the blunt thud of rocks bouncing off the coffin lid, even as she consigns me to the terrorism of non-existence.

She thinks I only care about facts and not innocent lives. I think she believes facts are only real if they support her position. There are so many weapons with which wars are fought. All wars. Words, swords, bombs, rockets, indifference, inequality, careless use of words, intense passion, fear.

And there are so many victims. 
Innocent, guilty, moral, immoral, tortured, maimed and mutilated. 
Who is guilty and who is innocent?
How does love survive a scorched earth policy?




©marthahurwitz2024