The Retzuot

I wind the black straps

along the white of my arm—

a soft hush of leather

against skin that remembers

more than I allow myself to speak.

 

Each loop a ledger.

A bond.

A chain.

 

Wound not just around sinew and flesh,

but around the failures I inherited—

and the ones I earned myself.

Personal collapses,

cultural shame,

the grief of a people still walking through fire

disguised as generations.

My father’s voice

still echoes on the deck of the Dunera,

classified as “enemy alien”

by a captain blind to covenant.

And yet he stood,

his mitzva cradled in defiance,

a rebel wrapped in ritual.

Tefillin as protest.

Faith as resistance.

וּקְשַׁרְתָּם לְאוֹת עַל יָדֶךָ

“And you shall bind them as a sign upon your hand…” (Deut 6:8)

 

I bind myself to that memory.

To him.

To the God who commands

not triumph but tethering.

Not purity but presence.

 

Opposite my broken heart

I lay the black box.

Inside: parchment, yes—

but also

the ache of exile,

the weight of testimony,

and the trembling mercy

of a God

who still wants us to remember.

 

These are not just straps.

They are inheritance.

They are bondage, yes—

to history, destiny, and tragedy—

but also to

the unfathomable compassion

of the One

who ambivalently binds Himself

to us.