My old neighbor Sheva’le is in her forties, wears a sheitel, and has all the vivaciousness of an 11-year-old
There’s no supper, not in the oven, not in the fridge — not even on the agenda — as I enter my apartment at 5:30 p.m.
He knew when I was sick with cancer, and always seemed concerned about how I felt. “How you feel? Good? Your family? Good? Everything good?”
When Bubby’s cat, dog, and bird tricks wore off, she would eagerly teach me pithy Yiddish proverbs about the value of true beauty and wisdom
Zeide dipped his hands into the cut-glass bowl. Cupping his palms, he raised them high, heaped with silver, coins flowing, flowing, flowing. Tinkling, clinking, singing,
My natural state is usually sedentary, but flick on an Avraham Fried tune, and I morph from couch potato to spinning top
