Regaining My Footing

My daddy was a doctor of feet
Came to knowing the tendons
and bunions of all who paid him
visits at his locales in the State
of New York, he cut and smoothed,
bathed and caressed, x-rayed and
diagnosed, painted them with salves
lavished them with jokes while
bandaging and giving the best
to each toe, nail and heel as they
say - they don't make docs like
him no more.

One day he saw his daughter's
feet. Must've been during the
time when we met on the Tel Aviv
coast. Six years of empty space
between us. Enough time to pass
for him to be a relic and for me to
be an enigma. Still he looked at my
dusty feet, unelegant in comparison
to his daily lady patients, mine walked
across continents and stood in mud in
basic training, ran from rapists and broke
in more than 4 places. Plain, flat, holding
up the body that ran more times away
than toward anything or anyone.

And he said: *You have peasant feet*.
*Oh* I said. Some place inside happy
that a part of me was low-class and
sad and upset that somehow I wasn't
good enough for my father's peering
eyes and opinion and would have
rather he'd said - *you have very
beautiful feet, my daughter*.
He alluded that day also that
I was a mistake and a bent pin.
An enigma. All those gifts given
to carry for so many more years.
Wherever I'd go, I'd walk with my
*peasant feet* and whenever I'd
hesitate somewhere there'd resonate
*enigma* *bent pin* *mistake*.

Then one day, I just stopped caring.
It just stopped. The panging. The yearning.
The wanting. The needing. It just left
on its own Journey into the nether worlds.
And I carried on without sentiment
He became forgotten father, so far
from heart/mind he became faint
like a distant star. I would reflect
on his genius, his moon fascination,
his wit and magic and his brief moments
of philosophical meanderings washed
over with Judaism ever so randomly.

Then he died. And the whispers
of *peasant feet* emerged a few times
more in the years that followed whenever
I would be on a stretch of land, pounding
in the stones with my sandals or wearing
through yet another pair of shoes.
My father, you were the enigma and
a pin doesn't bend unless the metal
from which it's forged gives its permission.
As for being a *mistake*, there are none
in G-d's perfect wisdom. And that I take
as legacy, heritage and inheritance.

This year his soul was freed.
Candles lit for him.
Kaddish said.
Mishnayot too.
One man on the Island of Long
went to the grave.
I will send a donation.
In honor.
In honor.
In honor.
Of the memory of my father,
Meir Ben Malka.
Rest in peace and may you
find your way Home.