It’s impossible to escape your dreams. Inside them, you are in a state that consciousness never admits where whistles and engine roars aren’t allowed Even in sleep, thoughts mesh with pilgrimages of a never-silent mind. You rock to-fro on a see-saw while cavorting playmates blurt out raw sound
In dreams it is simple. Your mother is mad at you Nothing can sweeten the acid taste of bitterness It invades your oblivion as she constantly accuses you of being a creature devoted to pleasure— a hedonist, and a bad influence on your kid brothers, when all you want to do is enjoy surf on your face and delicious kisses under the stars
When you leave home at eighteen, she throws a plaster replica of The Pietà, at your head, missing by inches. Her anger over a Jewish girl (me) for having this icon (a gift from a Catholic friend), can be forgiven. But to throw a heavy object at your daughter’s head is not cool. Still, at this point,
even with that ludicrous moment still palpable, I felt I owed her an apology. For individuating myself,
for wanting to experience adventure, passion, enlightenment—and drugs. I still feel I should seek forgiveness for any pain to which I subjected
her sweet, innocent, middle-class self. Nor did I mean any harm. I was one of those kids who glossed over rules and disbelieved the consequences of my choice to live off the grid. I aspired to be fearless, and I was—am But I cleaned up nicely, I’ve no regrets at all—except
if I hurt her with impetuous things I said, accusing her of abandoning her art, reproaching her for what I viewed as a lack of social awareness, I felt a need to countermand my unawareness of what it means to be an adult. I stayed by her side, pampering as she once
did me. I sweetened the compote. We fed on it gratefully
[1]Berrakah: berakah, also spelled Berakha, or Berachah (Hebrew: “blessing”). A benediction directed to God recited at specific points of synagogue liturgy, during private prayer, or for being spared from harm.
