A roundabout where entering holds no guarantees of a smooth exit. And once you are in, all entrances and exits disappear ,Where’s My Exit?,A roundabout where entering holds no guarantees of a smooth exit. And once you are in, all entrances and exits disappear
I tried to cry as silently as possible — I’m good at it. My grandmother turned to me and whispered: “We don’t get to choose”
Her presence bespeaks poise and confidence, yet I wonder how much is a farce, and how much is pure, unadulterated bitachon,
No need to ask Ma for help — in any case, Ma can’t remember where Ma put anything so long ago, before Pesach arrived and all that cooking started… so good luck and happy hunting!,
When my sisters and I begin with the stories, we’re performers on the stage of shivah stools. The audience’s faces alternate between awe and sorrow,
“May you be blessed with triplets this year,” my husband says as he grabs his childless cousin’s hand, pumping it up and down. I cringe
