She says we need to go together to an appointment, a date, a time, a room where a professional— crossed legs, slight forward tilt—can mediate her anger so it won’t destroy me. That this anger will pass by my head like hot wind coming up from a subway grate, a wind filled with filth rushing from an earth warmed by some devils-fire blaze: a wind I need to feel, but not make my own. 

 

There is never an appointment. We never go. She says she needs to tell me, open her mouth, let out the scream of a woman, a teen, a child, an infant, cold and hungry, new from the womb. It doesn’t sound like something we can do in a cafe, I say. 

 

Let’s try the beach, I offer. Where the wind, salty off some waves, might carry away any grey rage—offal rising like dust. Its scent dank, dry and empty as a subway: the clank of the wheels, that scratch around unseen curves through soot-ridden tunnels. The sudden open bathroom-brightness of each station. 

 

Can any Mediterranean wind whisk away such a scream as this? I am reminded of a house in Gush Etzion. You need to sign up months in advance. The Jew sits quietly while the Palestinian spills his grief, a torrent of sounds forming around generations of pain. Where, I ask myself, is God? I am sorry, I tell her. You are right. 

 

You entered the world cold, naked, afraid. My milk never warmed down to your toes. The mirror never reflected enough of you. The sting of your father’s hand on your cheek. Yes, the world is scary and sick. Possibly ending. Yes. It is my fault. 

Open your mouth, I say. Open and let it out. 

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