Desert Trees

for A. and M.—and all the children

The Golem flies to Safed. Some call it Safad. Some call it Tzfat. It’s the same place, she says, without a word. From the skies above the Galilee, the Golem reaches down. She opens all the doors. Violin waters rush through the Golem’s hands, lifting up every child. The children rise above the cloud cover. The Golem gives the children all the crayons, so they play. Scribbling on their air canvas from this height, they feel no chill, sense no explosion. The drawn lines fall to the ground. Looking down, the youngest notice a green line, then a blue line, then a purple line below, none of which they have made. When the children ask, the Golem tells them these are old lines that were never meant to be permanent. Then the Golem puts her head on backwards, but the children are unafraid. She becomes her own mirror. The children watch as walls dissolve in refraction. The Golem’s arms stretch around the world through the equator. The children know the Golem’s hands are the Hands of Fatima, the Chamsot. They are the same hands, the children say, without a word. The old lines vanish and the past is present. Then the Golem with her backward head and outstretched arms erases the Gestapo. What would have been memory ashes forward to feed the desert trees. Scribbled branches bridge sky to land. The children climb down with the Golem. They wash their hands together to break safe bread.