By Sipora West
Edited by Ellena Lu and Alloe Mak

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. Mary Oliver’s verse reverberates in my mind as I cross my arms to protect against the biting Montreal chill. In front of me, a bed of white and red flowers covers the soil below which Bubbie and Zaide’s bodies are buried. There is only one headstone, engraved with both their names, and I find this arrangement rather romantic. 

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. Sometimes I am so certain that God is real — like when I read Love (III) by George Herbert, or orgasm, or watch season one episode nine of Girls, or take my first hit from a freshly opened raspberry lime Oxbar — that I just want to seize the cynics by the shoulders and scream, can’t you see it? Can’t you taste it? Can’t you feel what it means?

—

I don’t believe in the afterlife. I don’t believe in heaven or hell nor salvation or eternal damnation. Bubbie and Zaide are gone, their flesh returned to the earth, the particulars of their tastes, desires, and grievances all secluded to the past. Bubbie and Zaide know as much of my mortal presence in this cemetery as they do of Ice Spice and Lunchly and the Four Seasons Total Landscaping press conference. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I’m here, I whisper, though I don’t believe in the afterlife, though I’m certain that Bubbie and Zaide cannot hear me. I’m here. No skies split, no cardinals cry, no angels ascend. I’m here. 

When I was in Copenhagen two summers ago, I visited the exterior of the apartment building where my great-grandmother, who I am named after but never met, resided during the twilight of her life. I took a picture to send to my dad, and as I tapped the camera icon, a floating dandelion fluff—the kind that children wish upon—landed on my thumb. I don’t believe in the afterlife. But at that moment, I wondered if my great-grandmother knew I was there. 

I’m agnostic. Definitely. 

—

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I contemplate the small stones left in piles atop the headstone, wondering whether leaving stones on headstones is specifically a Jewish tradition or a practice that all humans — Jewish or Catholic or Muslim or Mormon or definitely agnostic — engage in. We leave stones on headstones because, unlike flowers, stones do not wilt. In this way, stones signify the supposedly everlasting nature of memory, which is a sweet sentiment, but memory is not everlasting. Bubbie died when I was eight and Zaide died when I was eleven. I remember Mom yelling “SHIT” after accidentally deleting the voicemail message of Bubbie singing me happy birthday more than I remember what Bubbie’s voice sounded like singing me happy birthday. I remember Bubbie cooking the most delectable chicken noodle soup more than I remember what made the soup’s particular taste so exquisite. I think of Ocean Vuong: I miss you more than I remember you. 

Here is what I remember about Bubbie: That her accent was a peculiar amalgamation of the various European countries she’d lived in, combined with the dialect gained from a few decades in Jewish Montreal. That she collected silver overlay and arranged the pieces in display cases in their living room. That she gifted me posh dresses for Chanukah. That when she was especially sick, when she was nearing the end, that she no longer smelled like perfume. That the scent of sickness, that one’s essential aroma could alter so drastically, disturbed me far deeper than weakness, gauntness, or looming death. 

Here is what I remember about Zaide: That he barbecued corn but refused to taste even a bite, and when I inquired why, he replied that he’d consumed enough corn to last a lifetime. That his diet was restricted to corn under Stalin’s Russia, and in the decades since he couldn’t stomach the taste. That every time I saw him we browsed Indigo and he purchased me a book; that I owe much of my Dork Diaries collection to him. That he wore a Star of David prominently around his neck. That after serving our family another home-cooked feast he’d declare: I’ve outdone myself again! That sometimes, after I plate a new recipe, I instinctively think: I’ve outdone myself again!

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. 

—

I’m here. The laces of my right Doc Marten are untied. I’m here. The strap of my New Yorker tote bag is cutting into my right shoulder. I’m here. The fabric of my raincoat bunches under my armpits. I’m here. And I think I might know what a prayer is; I think this might be what a prayer is. 

It’s the intention to make the forty-five-minute journey to this cemetery. It’s the commitment to stand for a prolonged period by this grave. It’s the act of precise remembering, of recalling specific sounds, objects, and tastes associated with Bubbie and Zaide. I can access God anywhere there is sensual pleasure—looking at a Rothko, sipping a nutty coffee, listening to Addison Rae’s Diet Pepsi. Praying is the gimmick. Praying is sitting in love (for God is simply Love), and saying thank you for the specificities of that love. Thank you for the consistency of salty egg noodles on my tongue as I spooned Bubbie’s chicken soup into my mouth. Thank you for the satisfying crack of the spine when I delved into a new Dork Diaries that Zaide gifted me. 

—

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. But God, if You could reach Bubbie and Zaide, please let them know that I’m sorry for not visiting earlier. And I’m sorry for only visiting now that I’ve committed to doing so for this writing assignment. And I’m sorry I don’t have anything profound to say; for this I am always sorry. Oh, and tell them about Four Seasons Total Landscaping too, it’s a real laugh.