Cover Letter (Spoilers)

“Moishe” is a memoir / personal narrative piece which tells the story of how an elderly man named Moishe fell one day when I was walking with him. During the walk, I talk through what I have learned about Moishe, how he is such a bright, happy person, and who his wife Miriam is. The audience I want to reach is definitely general, but those who would be most interested are probably people who have cared at some point for someone elderly, or are growing older themselves and feeling more and more that all they have left are memories.

To me, the most important theme in “Moishe” is memory. Moishe and Miriam are an incredible contrast, because Miriam has so many special memories from her life, while Moishe has very few. Miriam’s memories are part of what makes her aware that the best of her life is already past her. Meanwhile, Moishe is constantly living in the present. If he could access them, he would have memories of all the times he has fallen, or going back before that his childhood as a Jew in Poland before the outbreak of World War I. But these would probably make him a more introspective, emotional person.

The most meaningful insight I have learned writing this story has been that even for non-fiction works, there is a great responsibility on the author to “curate” the story by picking which parts of their memories would best fit to make a cohesive narrative. This is especially the case for “Moishe,” since it is a story with many recollections of memories stored within. Getting feedback from my peers has also been very useful, as they let me know which details did not feel like they contributed to the story thematically. I ended up starting the story on the sidewalk rather than inside our building because of this feedback.

Writing “Moishe” has allowed me to work toward achieving Course Outcome 4. I would say I “experimented with narrative techniques” within non-fiction creative writing by shifting from the present tense to the past tense after Moishe’s fall. I first did this accidentally, probably because in writing about the fall the primary emotion was guilt, which involves a lot of reflection that can only come from the present tense. Then I decided to keep it, thinking it could also have the purpose of signifying to the reader that the story has changed, and that after the fall it is the present me remembering everything while sitting on that same bench with Moishe.

“Moishe”

I hear a deep, droning sound from above. Instinctively, Moishe looks up at the sky. It’s baby blue on this afternoon, painted with cirrus clouds like stretched-out cotton candy. It’s that perfect spring temperature: just warm enough to want to stay in the sun forever.

“It’s a helicopter,” I tell him.

He nods, still looking up like a little kid would at a Ferris wheel, as people pass us by on the sidewalk. He’s actually 87 though, and this is the third helicopter we’ve seen today. I’m not sure if he remembers that. Or the fact that he just pointed out that parked red SmartCar for the fourth walk in a row. I know his memory isn’t exactly the greatest, though.

I like being with Moishe, I think as we make it over the cracks in the sidewalk toward the entrance to the park. With him, everything is simple and slow. “Let’s go this way through the park,” he always tells me. It’s the same way every time. But I’d feel bad making him go another way – it feels like putting a shadow over his infinite-sunshine soul. So I let him take the lead.

We approach the staircase which leads up to the park terrace. He wobbles a little bit, but still marches up one stair after another confidently, holding onto the steel handrail. It’s hard not to be impressed. I used to be worried about him falling all the time, but I trust him now. In any case, he always pushes my hand away whenever I put it around him. I guess he wants to be independent as much as anyone.

We make it up to the terrace. He sinks his entire weight into the brown-painted bench and lets out a satisfied sigh, finding a place of peace. I sit down beside him.

Knowing I’ll have the next twenty minutes mostly to myself, my mind wanders back to the thoughts from earlier. Independence. That is what everyone wants, right? It’s definitely what Moishe’s wife Miriam wants. Her daughters live with their families in Las Vegas and Brooklyn, and are always telling her to move, or at least get a home health aide. She says she needs things to be a certain way in the house, and that they would just never understand. She told me how she could’ve sent Moishe to a nursing home a long time ago, but she thinks that would’ve been the death of him. I realized then that her purpose in life was to keep this man alive. Even if it meant asking everyone in the building, begging to find someone to pay to take Moishe on a walk every day since her legs no longer let her keep up with him. Reminds me a lot of my grandmother, who gave everything to look after her husband after his stroke.

I don’t blame her for being attached to this place, I think as I look around. Views of Upper Manhattan and the Bronx on one side, and the Hudson on the other. You feel miles away from the city here, even though the subway is a block away. Nearby is the hospital Miriam once worked at as a nurse, now an apartment building. She told me that she had to stay home on the Sabbath – the day of no work. But sometimes she would see from her window a light flickering on and off, and knew it meant they needed her. Without a second thought she would be down the stairs and heading over. God would forgive her, she said.

Moishe taps me on the shoulder. “Do you see there…” he starts, pointing his finger off in the distance toward the river. His heavy Yiddish accent makes each word breathy, like he’s trying to blow down a house of cards. “There are two roads, one… going under and the other going… over.” He glances over and smiles, wanting to make sure I’m looking. “You see that?”

He’s pointing to the Palisades, across the Hudson River in New Jersey. I get why Moishe never gets tired of looking at them – in each season they are their own beautiful canvas. In spring, they’re covered with forest green. I’ve learned over the past months that Moishe is a very observant man – most of what he tells me is about what surrounds him, although sometimes he shares with me some of those few memories that are still left with him – usually people who he knows who lived in the buildings we passed by. He’s the epitome of living in the present, which is probably why he’s smiling and laughing all the time. Every once in a while he’ll even tell something that’s supposed to be a joke, and I laugh with him.

I turn my attention back to Moishe. “You mean that road by the river?”

“Exactly.”

I love hearing him say exactly. Most of the time I’m pretty sure I didn’t understand at all what he was pointing to, mostly because I don’t have my glasses on, but if he thinks I did that’s more than enough for me. I give him back a warm smile.

My thoughts start wandering again. Memories… it’s funny how they can define a person. “Theo,” I remember Miriam telling me one of her funniest hospital stories involving David Copperfield and an order of disappearance, “I have enough stories for a lifetime. That’s all I have left, are memories. Enjoy life while you’re young because trust me, it’s not gonna last forever.”

After a while, Moishe glances at his watch, which isn’t showing the correct time but it seems to mean something to him. He motions for us to stand up.

As we make our way over to the stairs I stand a little bit behind him and to the left, letting him guide us toward the staircase down to a different section of the park. There is no handrail, so he usually uses the wall to the right side for balance while he goes down one step at a time, each dark-grey stone feeling like it was placed in medieval times. As we get closer and closer to that staircase, I look around and see all the people enjoying the warm spring afternoon, whether alone or in pairs. Some are by the flagpole, pointing to the neighborhoods in the distance. It’s hard to ever feel down when I’m in the park with Moishe.

We have reached the staircase. The first stair is a good bit elevated from the rest of the cracked, bumpy pavement. Moishe takes a big step toward it with his right foot, but for the first time in all the walks we have done, he steps at the wrong angle. All of a sudden he can’t help but wobbling forward a bit, then backward, and then losing balance. He falls backwards as his knees buckle, hitting his right hip on the pavement behind the stairs.

I came to my senses. Too late, I thought. Too too late. Now it was damage control, which is always what I’m best at for some reason. I came over and asked if he was okay. He seemed pained, but didn’t scream out – it was more than clear he couldn’t get up, though. In this moment of desperation, I looked around the terrace. Faces with looks of concern staring back at me. From the blurry crowd two strangers, Francisco and Tom, came over and offered to help.

“What’s his name?” Tom said, crouching down and offering their hand to Moishe.

“Moishe. We’re from 720.”

“I recognize his face from around. Do you think he can get up?” Francisco said.

“No… he definitely broke his hip. I think… we’ll have to carry him.” I looked at them with grateful eyes, trying to hide the guilt and weakness on the other side.

It’s funny how calm everything was. Moishe took a long time to comprehend properly what had happened to him. He must have tried to get up ten times. But every time, I saw him get just a little closer to the realization that he couldn’t even stand anymore, much less walk. It broke my heart watching him slowly accept defeat. We carried him up to the bench. Then there, the same. He told us it was his first time falling (Miriam later told me he had fallen many times before). I had to ask Francisco for a phone to call my dad because I forgot my own and I didn’t even remember Miriam’s number like I thought I did. I also asked him if he could call the Hatzalah service the Orthodox Jews use. Miraculously, he knew the number for that too. I had so much love for Francisco in that moment, and I still do.

When I finally got ahold of her, she said, “You called Hatzalah? Good, I’m so glad. Thank you so much, Theo.”

That broke my heart all over again. I knew deep down she must have been a bit disappointed – she trusted me and yet I let Moishe fall, but even in this moment of desperation she wouldn’t let me see it. Thank God that he didn’t fall forward, I thought, but that didn’t exactly make me feel much better. Waiting for the ambulance to come, I chatted with the two guys that came to help, Francisco and Tom. They were so nice. We talked with Moishe, too. His sunny, smiling self was only beginning to show signs of giving in.

Later on my dad and I went up to Miriam’s apartment. She was frenetic, even for her usual neurotic self. I kept trying to look behind her eyes to find a drop of anger but I couldn’t. She kept thanking me for remembering to call the right ambulance. We got her down to the cab that would take her to the hospital where Moishe was. She would end up staying there for a couple days, and then dealing with the rehab process for weeks. I went home with nothing with an anvil of guilt in my chest, and I wouldn’t see Moishe again for months.

I remember all of this a year later, sitting on that exact same bench on the park terrace with Moishe, staring at the Palisades. Thank goodness, my nightmare that he would never be able to walk again remained unrealized. He uses a walker now, to quell Miriam’s anxiety more than anything. I never forget my phone anymore. I always hold onto him when we’re going up and down stairs. We never go down that staircase anymore.

“You see that?” Moishe taps me and points up at the sky.

It’s three helicopters, one after another, heading up the river toward Upstate New York.

He starts laughing. I laugh along. I love going on walks with Moishe more than ever. I guess the more I do the more I can bury the memory of what happened a year ago. Of barely getting the courage to call Miriam every once in a while after the fall and check in on how things were doing. How my whole hand of cards was blown away and I was standing there useless, trying my best to pick them all up with my head down in shame, because God saw what they were and they weren’t enough. I wanted to help, I wanted to be a good friend for Miriam, but at the end of the day I didn’t have what it takes. Now I clutch my cards close to my chest. I tread carefully, knowing that one wrong step can change everything.

Moishe is still smiling, looking off at the Palisades. I wonder if he remembers any of that. Something tells me he doesn’t. He’s just there looking into the blue sky, bright like his hope. His hope that no matter how many times he falls, he’ll get up again and keep on walking.