She could not understand why
anyone, really, would willingly
give up their Saturday morning
to sit inside and recite prayers
half in a language that neither
they nor most of the congregation
spoke, and when I said some knew
the translations by heart, she added
“then why not recite those.”
She had a point, I knew, but would
I easily concede, as if that
would make my now dead childhood
Rabbi happy. He would likely
just agree with her anyway.
She took it well when I asked her
why she would sit on a rock hard pew
once every Sunday as though God
expected you to punish yourself, and
if you didn’t show up then He
would give you a demerit, and if
you got too many, you would get
detention from his assistant.
And, I added, for measure, good
our bad, why wouldn’t you just
talk directly with God, why did you
need the robed man on the altar
to run interference for you?
We never did answer each other
but we now share adjoining zafus
as we stare at the wall in meditation.