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
“It’s time for Mommy’s treat,” I say. Because it’s been a long day for me too, and I am such a good mother
“I see you’re drawing a lot of terrorists. Is that what the boys at school are talking about?” I ask my nine-year-old,
I am the official matriarch of our family. Too young for the job, in my mind, but it is mine nonetheless,
