No birthday gear in the house for hoorays, so Aaron will snuff out a mourner’s candle jammed in a muffin. His sons usually call, but last time he said no need. CONTINUE READING
I like butter, I want it but the butter’s too hard too soft, too salted, too French. CONTINUE READING
I’m taking a stroll before the sun goes down and our Passover guests arrive. I stop and lean on the railing by the sea cliffs. Warning signs, black on yellow, show a tiny figure tilting off a high edge, arms clutching at space. Way below, jagged triangles and crests suggest rocks and surf. CONTINUE READING