Half Peeled Cloves

I forgot to bring the garlic. I forgot to put on my perfume before I came. And I almost forgot the stone. I felt unsure about coming to visit you on Tisha B’Av. We’ll be traveling tomorrow in the middle of the night, and I have a very busy day ahead. I woke up early, but I couldn’t decide if I should come. Maybe that’s why I came unprepared.

I remember our Tisha B’Av afternoons in Toronto. You would come home late from shul, after midday, and we would all pile into the car and drive down Bathurst Street to the Jewish cemetery. You would stop at the back gate, and from the car we would throw cloves of garlic. I would separate the garlic heads and pass around the cloves, one at a time.

The small children could only throw so far, and the grass along the gate was littered with our half-peeled cloves. We created an unspoken game of who could throw the farthest—honoring the unknown with our thoughts and wishes. And as the children grew, it became harder for me to track where the cloves landed. 

We went to the same place every year, without understanding the reason for the custom. I don’t remember ever getting out of the car. My hands would smell of garlic the entire day.

I’m sorry I forgot to bring the garlic. I used your deep red, worn Kinnot siddur as I sat beside you. I checked to see if you had written your name at the top of the first page, as you did in all of your books.