I remember a year ago when you were there for me, holding on in the same way and telling me that I was so beautiful. Now I understand.
It's not until way into the night, when the summer sun is completely gone and the sky has finally settled into blackness, that Zvi's dad emerges from the storeroom.
The High Priest felt a single drop of sweat cascade down his brow. That distraction paled as the High Priest’s ears perked up to catch one choral voice gratingly out of harmony with his brethren.
He'd spent his whole life aimed to land here, in Israel, on the streets of Jerusalem. And now that he was here, he wondered what he was doing.
Potash Feldspar woke up and looked at the time. There, glowing brighter as the day progressed, the information projected on the closed drapes read 8:01AM. 58 degrees Fahrenheit. Hanetz at 8:45AM. His tired old eyes widened slowly and he rolled over to see his wife lying next to him, still sound asleep. Mr. Feldspar got dressed and put on his watch, which synced effortlessly to the drapes and his vitals came on screen. “Modeh Ani L’fanechah” he began to recite to himself.
Tsivia was the girl all the boys wanted to tease, then wanted to marry, then could never find the courage to talk to.
Every inch of the store serves him with a different memory.
Seven years later I could tell you that I’ve found the same venue for joy within observant Judaism, but I haven’t.
Elizabeth revisits the literary thinkers she encountered at age sixteen. And aren't we all searching for wisdom?
A story about a terror victim's mother preparing for their new normal.
