Was I right then to keep it, this piece of Israel forever mine, something to hold, something to carry, like a gift or a found treasure or a stolen trinket?
What is age? What is truth? What is time? If I feel like I’m 18, or 28, or whatever, why can’t I be?
Open your arms wide and greet every struggle that has ever touched you.
I was terrified... and then I exulted.
As the Rabbi continued chanting the Torah portion, Steven took the star-shaped paper to the back of the Shul, near where the coffee maker, the cheese Danishes, and the bottle of Slivovitz always were. He unfolded the paper and noticed first, that it was a hand-written note, and that whomever had written it had exquisite penmanship. ‘Dear Dr. Rice,’ it began.
‘I know you are upset...
A poem about my potential encounter with my deceased grandmother one Yom Kippur—and fear, doubt, mystery, and the mystical power of the sun.
We just came through Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur’s around the corner. And I can’t stop thinking of death approaching on the roaring winds of this ruthless and deadly storm.
Knowing other souls: glorious, but maybe the end of fun.
