Siren and Song

Incoming missile alerts sounded on my phone for several hours last night. (And continued into the morning.) Between those brief, jarring awakenings, I dreamed.

Maya and Agatha were preparing to light their Shabbat candles. Their home was dark yet saturated with color, like the ornate panels of the Russian Tarot of St. Petersburg, burnished gold, lapis blues, and deep crimsons. Shadows gathered in the corners like soft velvet curtains, yet everything seemed to glow from within.

At first I did not recognize the sound outside. It was the Shabbat siren, but it did not sound like a warning. It rose and swelled as if neighbors in the street had begun to sing, their voices braiding into one another, welcoming the entrance of Shabbat.

Maya lit her candles first. Agatha stood slightly to one side, hidden from me at first, as if waiting for her moment. Then she approached the table and lit her own candles. Mother and daughter sang the blessing, their voices low and full, and then they looked at me with such love that it felt like a benediction.

The four flames cast halos of honeyed light on their faces. They were dressed regally, their hair piled high like crowns. Their bearing was almost priestly, their necks steady and still, but eyes pouring out joy. Then they began to dance in slow circles, as if enacting the entrance of the Shabbos bride herself, grace entering the world because of their welcoming movements.

In the second part of the dream, the house I love had not been sold after all. I discovered it was only being rented for a year by a doctor and his partner. The loss I had already accepted was not final. In a year, I could make my offer again. The possibility felt like a door quietly reopening, a future not erased but postponed.

Then I was in Eilat, visiting Jude. The sky was clear and blue. We decided we would have our girls’ night at Arlan’s place, and with affectionate conspiracy we made him find somewhere else to sleep. The dream ended not in alarm, but in laughter and belonging.

When I woke, I stepped outside. Birds were already singing, the doves carrying the main theme. The sky was obscured by gray clouds, bundles of mistletoe were visible in the bare branches, the air was just slightly cool. I sat on the porch step listening to the symphony.

A musical night, a musical morning. In a few hours I will go see EPiC, a film about Elvis. Even the day feels scored.