Noah
Among the many gods that clamor for attention, I’m most amused by the god of my youth, the violent one from The Old Testicle who tolerates human scourge for only so long before scouring surfaces.
I remember the moment I learned that the ark was separated by stakes to prevent breeding. Ever seen a pig’s penis - corkscrewed and pink, it’s a nice reminder that there is more than one reason to gouge your eyes.
*
Yesterday, over breakfast, when my daughter accused my husband of being strict, he recounted the story of Noah.
“Consider having a dad like that guy,” he said, “Who opened the floodgates of heaven when he’d had enough, and erased everything in one giant, genocidal wave.”
I kicked him under the table and he laughs, wolfishly.
“You know who was spared,” he says, leaning in. “Noah. Favored for his piety.”
I interrupt him to share a fact I’ve been holding in for days.
“Emotional tears have a different chemical makeup than reflex tears,” I tell my daughter, “so onion tears aren’t the same as sad ones.”
My daughter gives us the side eye, leaves the table to retrieve her bag, and is out the door in a huff.
*
Later that night, under a fat August moon, in the raft of my California king, I recall an old Jewish myth: Moments before you are born, an angel whispers the entirety of your life into the soft apricot of your ear, then swiftly slaps you across the face. Instantly, your memory is erased, and you are born naked and screaming.
A midnight - the devil’s hour - I’m woken by my daughter, sobbing at the edge of my bed. She’s been spooked by a nightmare.
I pull her on board, my belly against her back, dovetail slats of gopher wood, cover us in pine pitch.
“You are safe and you are loved,” I whisper into her drowsy ear.
She won’t remember this, I think, moments before I’m submerged by an enormous wave of sleep.
*
In the morning, sunlight illuminates the lids of her eyes, where lacrimal glands produce waters that spill over when a god is forlorn or irate.
The morning light wakes her.
She pops up, duly buoyant.