I share a room with a man who has numbers tattooed 
on his arm. Cancer—he says, sardan and points to his head; 

He’s unlikely to survive or so the doctors’ hushed voices 
tell me as I pass in and out of sleep. My limited Hebrew 

consists of ani midaberit kzat ivrit, and not 
even that now; I can’t speak English without a stutter—

I’m just coming to and my father is reading this man 
Isaiah 53, a prophecy that my dad thinks foretells Jesus. My

father is always insisting that he would bring the Truth by any 
means necessary, but it’s just in poor taste to witness to a person 

who can’t answer. I wave my arms, say, n-, n-, n- to get 
Dad to stop. He smiles. Now look who’s woken up. She’s Alive! 

She’s Alive! Singing the song that I remember of Jesus 
rising on the third day, He’s Alive. A look passes between me 

and the man.  We sigh at the same moment He rubs his eyes,
puts a finger to his lips and rolls over.