Permission

“So, Poppa. The nurse says you’ve been talking to the Angel of Death.”

“It’s true. He visits a lot. He likes to schmooze.”

This revelation came while I was sitting with my father in his room at the Mt. Sinai Home for the Jewish Aged.

“How long have you two been . . . schmoozing?”

“Since the beginning. Since I was a small boy he’s been lurking in wells, hiding on tree branches, leaning on traffic lights waiting for one misstep so he can grab me. Last night he stood by my bed and yelled, ‘Enough, Morrith. For ninety-theven yearth you have ethcaped me. Give it up, for Pete’th thake.’”

“The Angel, he lisps?”

“And reeks from garlic. This morning he schlepps with him your mother in her house shoes and apron, like she’ll be some big incentive, and he yells, ‘Remember her oxtail thoup, her brithket? Come with uth, Morrith, and again you’ll eat like a printh. It’th like the Waldorf there, only cleaner. You’ll enjoy it, I promith.’”

“What did Ma say?”

“From her pickled tongue, not a peep.”

In my father’s room, the radiator hissed rhythmically along with words to a lullaby I’d not yet forgotten.

Under my little one’s cradle stands a small white goat.

The goat traveled to sell his wares.

This, too, will my little one do.

Trading raisins and almonds.

Sleep, my little one, sleep.

A nurse checked my father’s vitals, hung another bag on the I.V. pole. “How we doing, Morris? “ she asked.

“We’re terrific,” he answered to her retreating back.

I stood by my father’s bed, heard his slow breath, saw his arms bruised purple from needle sticks. I kissed his cheek.  

“Stop with the foreplay,” my father, eyes closed, whispered from some distant place. “I’m not falling for your tricks.”

“No, Pa, it’s me.”

     

In his bed, my father seemed to hover, deciding. “You think he’s telling the truth, the Angel? You think there is such a place and I’ll enjoy it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, Pa. I promise.”

Then I held his hand while he made up his mind.