Olive Branch

I was once a delinquent Jewish scholar. Let me explain. I received a letter in the mail from my mom today (bless you, Wendy Sue), and enclosed was a b&w photo from my bat mitzvah. In the image, I'm inches from crying, sitting next to my Hebrew tutor. We'll call him EB. EB was a serious man, with graying hair and a parrot named Chick. In the evenings during our studies, Chick would mosey down the table, sometimes walking near my tea, sometimes sitting on my papers, careless. In his thick accent, EB would call to her and extend a finger, and she would alight onto his hand. Those vesper sessions frightened me: would the bird peck me? would i ever sing the prayers in correct intonation? I made so many mistakes in those days: showing up to temple in sandals on the sabbath, procrastinating on anything and everything religious. I was a hot mess. Even now, thinking of EB's clean square nails and deep gaze gives me a little shiver. I think I'll write EB a note, check in on the bird. Maybe she's flown the coop, or maybe she's waiting for me to extend the olive branch. As of now I'm a bagels- and-lox Jew but it might be nice to dig a bit deeper, see how things have changed.