Two Fictions
David Erlewine

My Son the Rabbi

I never thought I'd father a child who'd be caught dead under a yarmulke outside of services.
The little white hat, frayed at the edges, bobbles in my face.
Matt sits on my lap, watching a recorded three-part "History Channel" feature detailing the Jewish plight.
"Oh papa, how we suffered in the Pogroms, doesn't it just break one's heart?"
"When did we start with the 'Papa'?"
He ably fast forwards through the commercials, stopping just as another onslaught of pain and suffering begins.


Erin answers yes, no, fine, okay, whatever.
My wife says give her time.
They quiet when I enter.
My stutter has snaked its way into her throat.
I sneak out of work early.
Erin's diary says she wants her uterus extracted, wrapped in a box, stashed behind my basement bar.