A DIARY OF SIGNS

When I walk the streets, I look for signs.

I used to think the answers were found through logic—mine or others.

But I’ve given up trying. Instead, 

I look for signs.

Signs of other people’s faith.Faith, that they will collect enough coins for food.Faith, that they will catch their bus.

Faith, that they will find, 

what they are missing.

I walk the streets and look for signs.

Birthday cards you sent me,our misplaced keys,your oversized glasses. I see our children, 

wrapped in knitted blankets, as you

pat them gently back to sleep.

I count the overstuffed grocery bags,that filled your hands.

I stop and read the signs.

I see our youngest childthrowing all my jewelry

out our bedroom window on Shabbat.

My pearl necklaces hang from the neighbor’s window bars.

I never found my diamond earring.

You would smile,

shrugged, as if to say, 

“Don’t lose your hope.”

When I walk the streets, I look for signs.

I hear the front door open,Wheeling in your suitcase heavy with our requests.

We piled up the cherry-filled licorice packages.

When I walk the streets, I look for signs.

I stop.

The children keep walking,then turn back to watch.

They look around,as I slowly peelanother person’s story down from the wall.

They ask,When will this stop?

But I—

I am still riding beside you 

on the boardwalk. I still hear

the rhythm of our lives.

Back then,

we did not believe

in signs.