beneath the table.

Grandma reached beneath,

took my hand,

and led me to the kitchen.

Why don’t you sit down?

I’ll make you some oatmeal.

I ate it, played with tiny

sword letter openers.

I could hear

the voices

rise and fall

and mix together,

angry or frustrated,

a pot boiling over

and simmering again.

I ate the oatmeal.

Ari, she said, smiling with hope,

how will you keep the mitzvot?

When I didn’t know what she meant,

she told me that the mitzvot

are our commandments,

the good deeds we do

and how we behave,

honoring our parents,

helping others,

observing the Sabbath.

I remember a time

when we walked

to the grocery store

and a man with a torn

jacket, his beard long

and gray, asked my grandma

for some food. I hid

behind her while

she handed him

a five-dollar bill,

and the loaf of challah

we had just bought.

The man said nothing

and walked away.

She stood, watching him go,

then turned to me and whispered,

You see, mitzvot. We do because we do.

My Father Comes

When we get back from the beach,

my father is there.

Finally, he says,

sits up, his black hair

curled in different directions.

Come ’ere, kid.

I feel small next to him.

He listens as I tell him about 10 pounds.

He smiles, makes it the biggest

news in the world.

I’m proud of you, he says.

You look great.

I ask him if he’s staying over.

Just tonight, he says.

At bedtime,

I read and listen to

the familiar beat of their voices,

arguments in undulating rhythms

of light and dark,

his deep voice

rolling out

in a wave of

reason, smooth

and weighted.

When they get quiet,

I walk to get some water.

He’s holding some papers,

a stack of letters or something.

Across the table,

her eyes look out the window.

It’s a silence I don’t understand.

I pour a glass of water,

but they don’t notice.

On the top of the fridge

is a red bag, shiny and full

like a Mylar balloon.

I saw it when I first came in.

Doritos.

Of course, he must have brought them,

and why would he think about

my diet?

I wait silently in the kitchen

until their voices start again.

I reach for the bag.

I feel a rush in my body,

and in a moment

I’m back in my room.

I sit on the edge of my mat.

The dim light of my reading lamp

illuminates the red foil,

the wedged chip,

a perfect triangle

of texture and salt.

The bag sits between

my legs, and I notice

how the fat on my legs doesn’t seep

out of my shorts as much,

that my stomach feels small

in my pajamas.

For a moment, I imagine

that the chips in this bag

will bring it all back.

I imagine that maybe

I deserve it all back.