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Andalusian Miku!! 💚🤍💚
sevillian miku be upon ye. shes going to the feria de abril!!
judío por elección (part 1)
(TW: aging, death, brief description of dead body and the effects of death)
We were stopped on the street two years ago by a small gray-haired lady who was thrilled to hear us speaking English. She herself was a Londoner who transplanted to our small Andalusian village with her husband almost twenty years ago. She was thrilled to hear people speaking in her mother tongue and invited my wife and I in for coffee anytime.
We started taking her up on it. The pandemic was still On, but not Lockdown On. We wore masks, sat on their broad terrace over six feet apart, and shouted conversation at each other. She always gave us tons of cookies and coffee from her once-white, now-brown-from-use plastic electric kettle. I get nervous about plastic kettles, but drank it anyway. And here was where we met her husband, E.
E was stooped and frail where his wife, S, was merely beginning to run down a little. When you get to E's age, the skeleton starts to come out in your features. Even then, we had no idea how old E really was until he casually mentioned that he remembered his father coming back from the war.
The War, he said, and I told my wife afterwards this must be WW2, and later, we asked enough questions to validate that guess. So in his 80s.
E forgot a lot of things. He acting like being Jewish was a secret because he'd forgotten how he'd hung up a Passover plate on one wall, and how he'd marked the eastern wall of the house with a plaque of the Tablets of the Law. We decided to make him feel safer by talking about my Jewish stepfamily and my wife's experiences of being mistaken for Jewish. He talked about learning Hebrew before he learned English, a little about growing up Orthodox in England in the fifties. Then he made us swear we'd never tell anyone in the village that he was Jewish.
We swore.
He wasn't an easy person to be around. Part of aging sometimes is feeling the weight of all your seemingly-innocent choices along the way dragging your body down into oblivion. Throughout his life, E smoked and E was a jeweler who did woodworking and home repair and almost never wore a mask. E when I knew him was tied to an oxygen tank and sounded like he breathed underwater. Throughout his life, E was strong and able to exert gentle control over others; when I knew him, his reedy voice rose to sharply criticize anyone around him.
He complained of how things were different now in the village; I saw his fear of the last great big change behind his words.
That was how my wife and I treated these visits: we were seeing an old man at the end of his life far away from his family trying to cope. He told the same set of stories over and over again; we took it as him needing certainty that somebody would know and tell those stories. (One of them: E worked on set design for the show "Merlin", kept the molds, and utilized them in his home design... so some of his walls had little archways with Merlin's star or the throne's symbol impressed upon them.) He went back and forth between taxing S with unreasonable requests and trying to ratchet them back when he saw he went too far.
Early in the summer of 2023, E started repainting and cleaning off his terrace and rooftop. S would cry and beg and plead for him not to, it was too hot, he'd go without oxygen too long (she was right). E ignored her. I drank my coffee and thought about how he must know the end was near and how he wanted to leave the house in a nice condition for S to live in, or sell, afterward.
The last thing he tried to do was repaint part of the ceiling which had collapsed and decorate it with stars, galaxies, and black holes. "It takes a great deal of time to reproduce the universe," he'd say, and my wife would laugh and say "Of course, it took G-d six days but we're not G-d", and then E'd laugh, every time.
Toward the end of an obscenely hot June, S called me in shrieking tears and told me "I think E has died!"
I was in the middle of six chores when I got that phone call, none of which were done that day. My wife and I ran for S's house. E had been mostly bed-bound for the past two weeks. He had gotten out of bed, walked into the foyer, and collapsed. He was almost certainly dead immediately. S had to do CPR on him while weeping and talking to the emergency workers in broken Spanish.
Never seen a dead body before.
After the workers finally arrived, it went more quickly. They picked his body up and wrapped him in a sheet and laid him on the marital bed. My wife, who speaks Spanish natively, spoke to all the different workers. I didn't, so I ended up finding a mop and cleaning up the urine that coated the entire foyer. (The next day I'd bring by a steam cleaner, run it through the whole foyer, and then I steam cleaned her kitchen so we could all pretend I hadn't brought it over to cleanse the last of E from the house.)
(When I learned that you kasher a microwave by steaming water in it, I immediately thought of that day.)
I led S into the room where E's body lay. I pulled out my phone while she cried. I didn't yet understand how an ethnoreligion worked, but I still had a sense that while E wasn't passionately religious, he would want certain things for himself. If he didn't, then S needed something that would help her move into grief. And I knew that it'd help me. So I pulled up an English language version of a mourning prayer and guided S through it.
This calmed her a little, and after touching his outline, she left the room. Alone, not sure if he said it or if I believed it, I recited the Shema on his behalf. (Which I had learned, to my goyim embarrassment, from "The Sandman".)
After E's passing, none of his remaining family were Jewish, and nobody wanted his Judaica. Once S started cleaning all the remnants out of her house, she went hard on purging the Judaica. I don't blame her for this, exactly. She was grieving and she had no concept of how important some of those objects could be. My wife told her to give us any books or items that were about Judaism instead of throwing them away. When she did, S lit up and immediately gave us his mezuzahs. One was empty. One had a tatty old prayer sheet inside it.
My wife and I looked for hours on how to dispose of the prayer (we still haven't, we're working on it). I looked up whether or not it was okay for non-Jews to hang mezuzah. As I shared the results, my wife laughed and said they'd feel weird about it, like they were cosplaying Judaism.
"I'd like to be Jewish," they said, as they had for the past fifteen years on and off, "only I can't."
This time, for the first time, I said: "Why not?"
Arch and square tower in the Jewish district of Seville, Andalusia, Spain
Spanish vintage postcard
Photos of my vacation in Sanlucar de Barrameda, Andalucia <3
Back Home,
Córdoba 29/12/2018
Going back home after three months in Nice made me realize of how exotic and different my area is. I truly missed it and I really enjoyed being back after so long.