Education

When a child dies,

without preparation or training,

you are thrown out of elementary school

where you sat in a circle, listened to stories

and ate graham crackers.

You don’t know what you did wrong,

and you are allowed to bring only

the lessons learned and nothing else.

Suddenly, everything about the landscape

has changed. The familiar moorings of family

gone. Friends have slipped away.

No one asks where you came from.

This campus of advanced learning where

you find yourself,

is vast and overwhelming,

nothing feels right,

the ground is uneven,

the air a different texture.

You do not belong,

yet people greet you

like they’ve been expecting you.

They hug you, then take your hand.

This is where you will live, they say,

and these are the courses that you will be taking:

Letting Go 201;

How the Universe Works;

Intro to the Afterlife;

Grief & Praise

And then you are alone, in a room with simple décor,

a bed and a desk, a view of the commons,

you pull out the photos you carry close to your heart

and place them on the table, where they feel both

necessary and out of place.

You lay down on the small, hard mattress and sleep,

tumbled about by dreams of your child

at three, climbing Masada in Israel

at six, racing into your arms after school

at nine, in Mexico, proudly holding a huge snake,

at thirteen, standing on the bima, shyly reciting Torah,

at eighteen, in Ireland sitting in a sculpture called

the Hands of God,

at twenty-one, the night before he died, his broad shiny smile

lit up by a rekindled fire in his belly.

In the morning, dazed and uncertain, you find an offering

outside your door:

A lit candle, incense, a cup of tea,

blossoms of plumeria & tuberose,

and a note that says:

“Though you never wanted to enter the halls of this hallowed

school, you are one of us and we will love you as you learn.

The classes are accelerated and deep.

The teachers will be unlike any you’ve had in the past.

Bow to beauty, sing for your soul, and know that all is well.”