My home thrums with the energy of joyful music, wooden spatulas drumming on my garbage can, and the thumping of sneaker-clad feet
On Pesach, Chumie counted Sefirah, on a transcendent Leil Shimurim she medically shouldn’t have lived to see. And the next night. And the next
Yom Tov ends, and it was beautiful, meaningful, but secretly, I look forward to routine and peace and hosing down the mess and sterilizing the premises
Time, I thought, did not fly by so fast. He is 20 and, doggone it, it took me 20 long years to get here
We laugh at ourselves and our awful memories, but inside, no one is laughing
I see it in the drunk boys, the girls with caked-on makeup, both desperate for attention, searching, wondering, yearning for something they themselves are unsure of
