The Search

The Search I push my neck beyond its reach, contort my achy back; lower my face til it’s horizontal to the pocked wood floor. With an ants view of the world, like a miner I prospect; small bits of bread my treasure. Wax dripping off stubby candle blister my hand as I peer into unlit corners. My grandfathers who died of hunger watch me; the crumbs I burn would have fed them days. Beyond, my wife and girls, holding, incongruously, white wax-covered paper bag and wooden spoon, sigh as they await release from the ritual that isolates them from their cellphones and laptops; no insight as to why a decidedly non-fanatic man inches around on his belly for hours. Wheezing from the dust covering my mouth and nose, I ask the same question. My mind jumps forward a night to a table laden with food and finery. Erect amid the china and crystal, is the just poured silver Cup of Elijah. The wine, trembling above the lip, awaits the prophet himself. Eyes on the open door, we laugh and cry hoping he will herald an end to the numbing exile. Jerked back to reality by a hot burn on my cheek I accept that at my deepest core I crave and am comforted by illogical belief