We have been taught thusly: that a knock, a rap, an application of the hand, of the knuckles, the palm, is variable with intent, that a knock must spend itself in only one of two ways, depending; and so we have two interpretations, one to each fist, united in purpose; whereas some scholars say, a knock ends when the hand breaks contact with the struck surface, other scholars hold that it’s when the sound of its striking is rendered imperceptible, when it’s said to die — physics and the acoustic aside, this is philosophy, what’s meant is the appreciation of senses. But this knock is strange; it’s as if the fist or all the world’s fists at once are metamorphosing into the door, and without any breaking, any cracking, or splinter, in a knock that’s forever a knock, a massed hand of hands exploring the surface, the lifespan of entry, though others hold that the hand of God outstretched and strongarmed only strikes quickly, then removes itself, retracts into its own power and infinite mercy, and that the sound then lives, not reverberates, that the knock sounds in a single wave throughout the structure of the house, the solo stroke transmitting itself in full to the foundations on up to the roof and quaking with light, undiminished — the entire house knocked upon, this house of total door. As a force, this came to Him, felt this through Himself, it shook loose His bowels, its contents, sending the milks and meats of His juices sloshing from sucked feet to head and back again to the toe cradled inside his mouth in tides without moon, fogging His glasses to tears to hold in His beard.
A knock, not a joke’s setup: without punchline, a knock not funny at all but the opposite. Inverse. Though it wasn’t the knock that scared Him, this He remembers, that His siblings or parents expected, they might’ve expected, yet another visitor at this latest hour: had a dinnerguest left a scarf behind, maybe, or a serving platter for the dessert who bought and brought, no, He thinks, that wouldn’t justify, another thing much more important then, maybe a weddingring taken off sinkside to wash hands without prayer, or a prosthetic limb forgotten, perhaps, propped against the wall alone (how it eats and drinks little, doesn’t take up much room), or else Misses Feigenbaum, finally back for her husband; it’s that this knock’s horror, true terror…who’d it be, had his father left yet, already for work on Monday, a weekday already? It wasn’t the knock that froze Him inside, no, it’s that He felt that Someone now expected something of Him — and so there inside Hanna, He flailed out once, kicking out her navel, to a second stomach, lesser or greater. In the end, the scholars agree: a knock is a knock is a knock, make no mistake about it, there’s no disputing — it knocked the stairwell photographs downside up, to be righted by Wanda by morning, and all that was fine, understandable — it’s the thought, though, that He’d have to answer it.
To live is to transgress, existence itself a species of violation; day passes through hours into days, into a lifetime spent in darkness under the sun that must shine always, as it has no will of its own. From the first seven to now, each day is a history, which we deny if we fail to live our lives in its observance, for its sanctification. As we go in and as we come out, as we rise up and as we lie down, carelessly, accomplished without conscience, we deny the tradition of each day — we live without a thought given to the eternal presence of the past in our present, which is already past, even though it may tarry. Other calendars live through our calendar, shine through in glimmers of the sacred, like the cloudlike moon as descried through the black of the clouds…wheels turn each other, turn through one another, bound to the heart, caged in the ribs — the soul and the body find refuge in the same nothingness, what we call mensch…
To interpret winter, it’s December, which in our generation dawns during the month known as Kislev, if only to those who might know no more. Much like the soul and body, they have nothing to do with one another, December and Kislev, save that they cleave to the same, which is nothing, each other. Wrapping, ribbons of bows, tissue, foam pellet packing — to tear at the box that is day, the present, to find inside the gift that is time. We might have mentioned, it’d been the holiday of the lights, Hanukah, each night a candle wicked down to dawn and its aureate smoke, meltings in the menorah her mother had left her, Hanna’s, Polish, it didn’t polish itself, you had to scour, replace it on its cabinet shelf, but this she’d leave to Wanda, upon the night after the last — the ninth, numbered as a plague of the opposite season — observed at the sink, its ritual of the goo and the rag.
