%title Kaddish
:writing:fanfic:fiction:short-story:

*Yit'gadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba. Oh Sarai, oh Sarai.*

Sol wept. Wept himself dry. Wept until his eyes burned and fit ill within their sockets.

Rachel looked to be living in a constant state of alarm and exhaustion, some set of emotions more less complicated, more primal, shaped more simply than the ones Sol grappled with. He was ashamed to admit that he was jealous of her, in a way. The innocence of childhood, even that of a second childhood, was enviable to allow one mere sadness, mere confusion.

To lose Rachel --- *his* Rachel, his very own little girl all grown up --- and then to lose Sarai was unbearable. Unfair. Unacceptable. He cursed God. He cursed the god of Adam and the god of Abraham and Isaac and the god of Moses and David and Elijah. He cursed Rachel's god, Sarai's god. His god.

*Yit'gadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba b'alma di-v'ra chirutei...*

Magnified? Sanctified?

Sol railed. Why magnify Him? To what sanctity does He lay claim?

He was careful to keep his turmoil firmly in the realm of *inner*, or, at worst, private. Walks. Lots of walks. First on Barnard's World, where he basked in the sunsets dripping light as thick as blood and just as red; then on Hebron, where he let the sun bake away his tears.

*Magnified and sanctified be His great name in the world which he created according to his will.*

Was this His will? Was it? Was this His design? Was Sol His careful creation? Was this ineffability? Was his will to be so complicated and complete that Sol would never be able to know it? Know it in his heart, in his bones?

*V'yamlich malchutei b'chayeichon uvyomeichon uvchayei d'chol bet Yisrael.*

Sol had long since picked up on the rhythm of his mourning, on the rhythm of the Kaddish.

First he would weep.

Then he would curse.

Then he would question.

Then, as now, he would sneer.

His kingdom. *Kingdom*. Was this it? Was this his vaunted kingdom come 'round at last, right at the end of Sarai's life? Was that last fiery moment of hers spent witnessing that grace and beauty? Was Sarai, in that moment more than any other, Israel, witnessing the establishing of God's kingdom?

And then, as now, the anger would flare bright, gutter, and go out, leaving behind a smoldering ember that would surely light again, and the sadness would be smoke.

Perhaps it had been. Perhaps it had to be. Perhaps he must pray that it was. He must pray that, in those last moments, despite the terror, despite the flames and the terrible exertion of countless gravities, Sarai had seen that golden kingdom for herself and dwelt there for a time, however short.

*Y'hei sh'mei raba m'varach l'alam ul'almei almaya.*
And then he would pray. Would pray and try to feel that praise within him. Would try to hold that dialog with God that he so desperately craved, would wait for the *bat qol*, that heavenly whisper, to make itself be heard.

And, even in his disappointment, he would try to take those praises to heart. His faith was weak, fettered by doubts and too many analyses, he knew this, and yet, for those few sentences, he would at least try. He would at least try.

*Yitbarach v'yishtabach, v'yitpa'ar v'yitromam v'yitnaseh, v'yithadar v'yit'aleh v'yit'halal sh'mei d'kud'sha, b'rich hu, l'eila min-kol-birchata v'shirata, tushb'chata v'nechemata da'amiran b'alma.*

And then Sol would be done. The half Kaddish spoken, today as it had been every day since. Today until that fateful day eleven months from the day of Sarai's death. Today, and every anniversary.

*V'im'ru, "amen".*

*Oh Sarai, Oh sarai. Would that I had the faith to pray daily. Eleven months to let you go, and an amen to end the sorrow.*

