new haven.

I.

This story begins where it always does, in the arms of one you love. 
This story ends where it always does, thrust out into the cold of not-love.
This story begins where it should, in youth.
This story begins where it should, in foolishness.
This story reverberates through a decade. 
It begins and ends everywhere and nowhere.
It is over and all at once only beginning. 
There is nowhere to go and nowhere to grow except into the people we have already shed along the way.
Let’s begin. 
Here I go.

II.
He and I walk in a beautiful neighborhood.
We are doing what new lovers do.
Interrogating the other
That we might feel viscerally the edges of their experience
What form they take in space
Not just in touch
Where they’ve been and how they arrived here

Have you ever seen a dead body before?

Only at funerals. My aunt’s funeral was open casket. So was a girl from my high school who died in a skiing accident, and my friend’s mother who died from suicide. So, I guess I’ve seen a few. But never outside of a funeral. What about you?

I never have. 

Not even at a funeral?

No,  Jewish funerals don’t do that. 

Why not?

Honoring the deceased is a high Jewish commandment. The belief is that viewing a corpse leads to thoughts that dishonor the deceased. 

Really? Like what?

Reflecting on your own mortality, thoughts about how the body looks, emotions tied to the viscera of seeing someone you care about who is dead; none of this is tied to who the person was and what you celebrate about them. So, seeing the body of the deceased does nothing to honor their soul. Additionally, we take seriously the injunction in the Torah that “Dust you are, to dust you shall return.” Any sort of embalming interferes with that process of our natural return to the earth. 

Dust you are. 

To dust you shall return.

I looked at him, his eyes were full of me. I could only see myself in them.
I knew, though I couldn’t see, looking in my eyes, I was still me.
I don’t think he did.

III.

We are washing dishes. 
We are playing music. 
We are playing Bruce Springsteen.

Well they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night
Well they blew up his house too
And on the boardwalk they’re getting ready for a fight
Gonna see what them racket boys can do

Everything dies baby that’s a fact
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back
Put your make up on and fix your hair up pretty
And meet me tonight in Atlantic City

We sing aloud to the chorus
Enjoying the catharsis of singing something so morbid in the midst of a pandemic
My facebook feed is full of obituaries
And gofundme’s for people who are in the ICU
If you die from this virus, you die alone.

Everything dies, baby, that’s a fact.
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back.

It seems to be a time full of death and grief. 
The news filled with people dying from COVID-19
Even the ones who die from other things still feel furthered along by the general atmosphere of death and loss and no hope in sight.

My graduation from grad school would not come back. My showcase would not come back. These last few months of grad school, the last time I would be with my class, on this campus, in my beautiful one bedroom apartment. 

IV.

We are on a sidewalk in Connecticut.
It is 8pm.
A man is dying in front of us.
A young boy pumps his chest.
A young boy puts his mouth on the man’s mouth.
He breathes.
And continues pumping.
The man’s head lolls on the concrete. 
Rolling back and forth with each concerted pump given.
They beg us to call an ambulance.
The dispatch can’t understand their accents, they say.
Caroline grabs the phone. 
She directs the ambulance to where we are.
They drive to the wrong block and we run down the street, waving our arms and shouting.
They drive to the right block.
We stand and wait while they get their equipment out.
Who called us?
They ask.
We did. 
We are students at Yale Law.
I say nothing. 
Yale Law is a lot better than Yale Drama in this moment.
They pull the boy off of the man. 
He has been breathing and pumping for 10 minutes.
The man rocked back and forth by the effort.
No breath. No movement. 

He staggers backwards in a daze.
We stand and watch.
I hear him ask someone for water.
I think he wants water.
Do you want water?
Yes.
We’ll get you some.
Caroline and I hurry down the street to a pita shop.
We buy a bottle of water and rush back.
We hand it to the boy.
He dumps it over his head and washes his mouth out, spitting.
He looks at us.
I couldn’t save him.
Tears suddenly appear out of his eyes.
He shakes as he pulls Caroline to him.
They stand in a hug for I don’t know how long.
I am struck by this sudden intimacy.
In this new world of six foot distance,
Here are two strangers hugging on the street.
His shoulders heaving up and down.
He seems to come to himself suddenly and pulls himself away.
You were very brave. That was very generous.
He wipes his eyes.
I don’t know. 
You guys Yale students?
Yes.
What’s it like there?
It’s good. We like it.
We don’t say too much.
I always want to go in there. It looks so pretty but they don’t let us in there. They’ve got those big gates. 
We don't know know what to say.
Do you have somewhere to go tonight?
No.
He walks away.
Caroline calls a few shelters and finally finds one with a few beds left for the night.
We walk the streets looking for him,
but he’s gone.
We walk home for four blocks in silence.
No one says a word.
We breathe in the cold night air and walk.
Hands thrust in our pockets.
A man with a long beard and holding a pillowcase as a bag, slung over his shoulder, comes up behind us.
Hey, are you kids the ones who called the cops?
Yes.
He didn’t make it.
We just nod.
He gives us a look and walks on, disappearing in front of us into the night.