Saturday, June 11, 2016

I like to think of myself as a modern man. A confused one.

I like to think of myself as a modern man. A confused one. One left to his own devices, because of one thing: the silence of God. When Isaac, my father, lay on his deathbed, waiting for me, or rather, for his favorite son to come in, he suspected, somehow, that he was about to be fooled. And yet, God kept silent. Now, all these years later, I wonder about it. 
God did not help the old man. He gave no warning to him, not one whisper in his ear, not a single clue. Now as then, He is utterly still, and will not alert me when my time comes, when they, my sons, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, are ready to face me, to fool their old man.
As I said, I could not care less for any of them—until, that is, Yoseph. Yosele my son, my son, Yosele. 
When he was born—were you here, then? Did you see him? Really! So cute, so handsome!—I forgot that curse, the curse of being the favorite one. Even worse, I forgot the promise I made to myself, never to pass it on. And so I wrapped him tightly, with all my hope, all my love, all my yearning, wrapped him in that beautifully striped shirt, paying no attention—none whatsoever—to the jealousy flashing, every now and again, from the eyes of his brothers.

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