Old Wounds

“How would you rank your visit?” my brother asked.

He’s kidding, but he’s not. The wrong clothes, misplaced reactions, sharing too much or not enough. I had wounded both him and my sister-in-law unintentionally from a lack of enthusiasm and general awkwardness.

“Like a rotten tomatoes score?” I asked.

Did we take enough trips? Did I like my food? It was difficult to thread the needle. Yom HaShoah. Yom HaZikaron. Yom Haatzmaut. The significant holidays that occurred during my visit were also historically and culturally old wounds. From Pegrebin’s three chapters connected to these holidays her phrase about Yom Haatzmaut stayed with me. However, this perhaps was due more to the physical challenge ahead of me.

Pegrebin quotes Rabbi Elliot Cosgrove. On Yom Haatzmaut, we wonder together if “Israel is going to be able to thread the needle of being a Jewish and democratic state into the generation to come.” (217)

A next generation was my primary motivation for the visits. One niece, two nephews and the determination to not repeat the disconnect I felt with my own extended family, an emotional distance also caused by a geographical one.

Stamped cross stitch pillowcases had been their late request. I had tried the activity the last visit and decided it had only been marginally interesting. The three last minute designs, five pillowcases in all, had been a surprise challenge. I had prepped as much as I could ahead of time, creating the pair pillowcases as guides and outlining colors. The last visit was the last time I threaded this needle, my niece frustrated and my nephew in awe. This was always the case. Attempts at knowing, understanding and predicting patterns and then patterns change. The xs that guide the design were just as fragile guides. They started to disappear from fingers rubbing over them and water would erase them completely. This usually resulted in awkwardly stitched designs, a metaphor to our relationship, that looked and felt more perfect from a distance.

Pegrebin laments difficulties and contradictions in these holidays. For Yom Hashoah, she specifically asked herself, what I always ask myself for these visits, “Is it better to try and do the best you can? Or have we just botched it?” I agree with her assessment, otherwise I wouldn’t be here again. To build something was always to risk losing something.

Scissors were problematic, but needles weren’t too dangerous to take on airplanes. This fact raised my brother’s eyebrow. With nail clippers to cut floss, I could stitch my way across the Atlantic. However, the cut was not as clean making it a bit more difficult to thread the needle. I shared a wry smile with myself. I arrived with enough completed to get us started. I doubted we would finish all six. Did that matter? Only in the resulting next steps that determined who kept what and who would finish which? Maybe it didn’t matter. Fish. Sports equipment. Umbrellas at the beach. In so many ways, I would spend any free moment literally threading needles on the couch.

Yom HaShoah

I had watched the names read aloud on Israeli television. Low lit stage. Bright lit living room. I had stood alone when the sirens blared. This time, I found community. Seated on plastic chairs at the community center, I tried not to celebrate too much my Hebrew success as I listened to the Holocaust survivor tell her story. Appreciation in difficulty. Enjoyment despite challenges. Taking a deep breath and trying again means that you are in fact breathing.

Yom HaZikaron

A ceremony with dance and speeches, a red flower and white cloth. My niece had practiced her speech for the past week.

Everyone was given a sticker to wear. When we left, I removed the sticker from my white shirt and pressed it back into its smooth paper. I wanted to save it.

“What is the flower?” I asked at breakfast.

My brother Googled it. “Red Everlasting. Blood of the Maccabees.”

That made sense for a memory of soldiers and victims of terrorism. Fear was rooted in history. It grows. It dies. It returns. But, so does overcoming fear.

Yom Haatzmaut

Independence Day arrived at the very end of the visit. Despite the calendar reminder, the flip from memory to celebration was truly a matter of seconds. Truly a unique emotional trait I had not considered. Somehow, I always knew one did not exist without the other. My brother’s birthday, too, was this type of wounded day. I had always thought it was meanspirited at best, to give a child a celebration the day before his mother’s death. Now, it seems it binds him completely to who he always wanted to be. Jewish. Israeli.

It, too, was imperfect. We took the train to a park and wandered through family barbecues and teenage hijinks. It was a park I had enjoyed when this all began, my brother’s wedding. I was surprised he had chosen such a public and visible area just the day after hard to endure commemorative sirens had filled dinner with anxiety and sobs. We decorated the inside of the apartment, the second choice. Wind whipped too warm and too fast across the balcony tearing the plastic flags down only seconds after we secured them. A celebration held close and inside, for ourselves. Special and truly made our own.

“How would you rank your visit?” my brother had asked.

For me, it had always felt too easy to stain the experience. Not ignoring a bit of skin. Rip. Not focusing on where the needle pushes through. Poke. Red blood on white cloth. Thread that was too thick. Chosen designs that were wrong. I had not considered not focusing on the imperfection, but instead expecting it. Then, appreciating what happened next.

On my last morning, I washed the 4th of the 5 pillowcases. It was a beach scene already wounded, because it was not the one my niece selected. Our miscommunication meant she felt I hadn’t listened and had forgotten her. Its second ‘flaw’ was that it was ultimately not a perfect match to its pair. My nephew changed the color from orange to red. I almost, but why should I have stopped him? He cared enough to take ownership. He cut the strings. He overcame his fear of pricking his finger with the needle. It’s inspiring to remember that the generations, even with trauma, look to change their worlds. The final pillowcase remained with him to finish on his own. I returned with the message that there was more in our future together. I believed it. I believed in it.

My brother dropped me off at the airport. “I think we can consider this a successful visit,” he said, slamming his trunk door.

“Except for that weather. Bad luck.”

“Yeah, I don’t actually care about that.”

Yom HaShoah. Yom HaZikaron. Yom Haatzmaut. Old wounds. I don’t know what it’s like from the other side for these children, to spend time with someone they know mostly from a screen. Each time I visit, somewhere inside they are afraid too. Unsure of what to do with me. Unclear of what we can do together.

Two weeks and three holidays had ended up in agreement with Pegrebin’s answer to her question.

“I’ve decided it’s better to try. And that the intention of getting it right has to get me through it.” (211) Inviting in joy that must be wounded, but more importantly, old wounds today give birth to unexpected and welcome consequences.