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 exact 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 too 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, who was favored for his piety.”

I interrupt him to share a fact I’ve been holding 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 a side eye, leaves the table to retrieve her bag, and is out the door with 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 slaps you across the face. Instantly, your memory is erased, and you are born naked and screaming.

At midnight - the devil’s hour - I’m woken by my daughter, sobbing at the edge of my bed. She’s had a nightmare. I pull her on board, my belly against her back, covering us in pine pitch.

“You are safe and you are loved,” I whisper into her soft ear.

She won’t remember this, I think, moments before we’re submerged by a giant wave of sleep.

*

In the morning, sunlight illuminates the lids of her eyes, where lacrimal glands produce water that spills over when a god is forlorn.

The morning light wakes her. She pops up, duly buoyant.