Years since it bore an apricot. Many more since it bore many. Half the trunk rotted, fallen, gathered in the windrows by the field. On mossy branches raspberries grow, making rainbows. But every spring, around my mother's yahrzeit it remembers (as do I) and blossoms in the palest pinks fiercely, profusely, fragile. Nothing will come of it, as nothing comes of me, except forgetting, except small bits of me riding away on petals on the wind.
Photo Sasha Freemind on unsplash “Repentance,” like most words that have come into the English language from Latin, is thin on emotion, feeling. There is something cerebral about it that does not capture the sorrow, the regretting, the regressing to the fervored childlike promises of I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. But lashuv , to go back, means not only ”to regret,” it also means “to return.” This translation captures the hope that going back is always possible: going back to a pre-lapsarian world in which our wrongdoings are gone, in which we have not yet missed the mark ( cheit , the word for sin, being an archery term), in which broken relationships are healed without leaving scars, in which we ourselves are innocent again, having said No to the apple and the knowledge of good and evil. Yet somehow the notion of returning implies a place or a state of being to which we can return, as we move from the here and now to the there and then. But can we? How do I return when I am lo