The Huipil
I don’t hold with those who think that we’re the Chosen People but the joy of waking by your side has almost made me a believer. Small miracles are woven from quiet moments such as this, each colored strand locked… Read more ›
I don’t hold with those who think that we’re the Chosen People but the joy of waking by your side has almost made me a believer. Small miracles are woven from quiet moments such as this, each colored strand locked… Read more ›
The dead were lined up for inspection at Gert’s apartment in the Bronx, their shiny faces arranged in even rows like students gathered for a class photo. At every birthday, Mother measured me against the wall and made another mark,… Read more ›
It could have been the war or his impoverished youth but for Dad it was a mortal sin to pay list price, worse than marrying out of the faith or eating in front of the shul on Yom Kippur. He… Read more ›
O to be in Tehran at Nowruz and watch your dark, seductive eyes catch sparks from the red flames. You chase away the mangy jube dogs sniffing at the gutters and leap like a doe through the fires raging in… Read more ›
My name is Chaim. It means life. Everyone who drinks makes toasts to me but take my word for it my life has been no picnic, and if it were, God would send a horde of ants as guests. I… Read more ›
You can taste the sea-salt in the air as you follow the old man and his donkey into the olive groves. From his woven sack he conjures up a feast fit for the Grecian gods of ouzo and retsina, pita… Read more ›