The Crone's Request

I just heard that Joe Hennessy (you don’t know him), Mediterranean diet, no sugar, almost zero body fat, lifts weights, meditates, bent down this morning to tie his Adidas and bim-bom-boom keeled over dead.

Oh, me too, please. I want to go like Joe.

Before the diagnosis. Before my hair hits the shower floor and circles the drain. Before I think Fido is my daughter and she carts me off to Shalom Towers, a turnip in a bib, parked in the sunroom with Ida Shirley Hershel Ruth we’re a regular vegetable garden.

Thou shalt rise in the presence of the potato and honor the cabbage.

No no no no Oh no. Before death by a thousand cuts, I want to go like Joe.

Not that I’m ready, mind you . . .

Tomorrow I’ve scheduled a pedicure. Tuesday is the Knitting Klatch, Thursday’s Shanghai, the kids are coming Friday for dinner and there are three years left on our water heater guarantee. Also, my passport (which I renewed when Trump won) is good through 2027. Not to mention that the jar of raw local honey in my cupboard never goes bad, did you know that?

So.

Where are you now, Malach ha-mavis?

Roaming the outskirts of Kiev?

Prowling streets in Gaza?

Lounging near the NICU?

Maybe you’re parked in front of my house in the dark, on the roof over my bedroom. Do you see me turn out the light? Do you hear me say the Shema? If yes, and my name is next on your list, surprise me while I dream..

And no slow hands, please. Take me quick.

No? Swell.

Modeh ani lefanecha. I am thankful before you, living and eternal King, for you have mercifully restored my soul within me. Great is your faithfulness.

Today (p’tui, p’tui) Quan will paint my toenails Kiss Me I’m Brazilian Pink.