Happiness. It's relative.
The glue of our marriage is cooking. This is especially true now that we are under a Stay at Home order. We talk about breakfast the night before like we’re planning a Thanksgiving dinner for twelve people. I’m figuring out that the trick to… Continue Reading “The Pot on the Stove”
From across the street, I can see the rabbi’s ironing board. It is right in front of his second story bedroom window, the iron parked, waiting for the next wrinkled shirt. I’ve never seen the rabbi ironing although I have seen him davening in… Continue Reading “The Other Side of the Street”
I spent the summer of 1973 sitting on a blanket atop the scorched brown grass behind our Flint townhouse, yards of black cord connected my bagel-size headphones to our stereo inside. I watched my eight-month old baby girl sit and crawl and eat the… Continue Reading “The Searing Comfort of Layla”
I don’t give advice to adoptive parents. I don’t tell them what I know or even what I suspect. I keep my mouth shut. It used to be that I figured their experiences would be different and, indeed, everyone’s experiences are different. Easy or… Continue Reading “Find Her: A Reflection on Lion”
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