What Doesn’t Kill you on Tu B’Shevat
There was no time to think, scream, blink, anything. Just trees, coming toward my windshield.
Contributing writer Jenna Zark is a local Jewish playwright whose plays have been produced at Circle Repertory Company, Illusion Theater, History Theatre, Minnesota Jewish Theatre, Blank Slate and elsewhere. Jenna has also written for Minnesota Bride, Woodbury Magazine and other publications, and her poem "After Birth" recently appeared in Stoneboat. More information is at www.jennazark.org.
There was no time to think, scream, blink, anything. Just trees, coming toward my windshield.
I circle around the room, thinking of The Gift of the Magi story by O. Henry and trying not to cast myself in an overly romanticized version of it (substituting holidays instead of gifts for the self-sacrificing lovers).
Halfway to the holiday, I start feeling nervous. “Where is Josh going for Simchat Torah?” asks Josh’s father. “I don’t know,” I reply.
This is how you know someone loves you: when he forgoes sitting inside by the fireplace you don’t have and ventures out into the damp to help you build a temporary house for a holiday he’s never heard of.
I suppose in some universes, Jewish American Princesses are funny. I have never found them so but since people in the audience were guffawing, I must be missing something.
Finding yourself alone on Rosh Hashanah can bring surprises -including finding the One who leads us to the people we’re supposed to meet.
There is no comfort in endings, no matter how much good might come to you at other times.
“Do you believe Jews are chosen above all other people?” “Chosen for what?” I reply. “Suffering?” He looks as though he wants to kick me, but does not.
An Israeli soldier is asleep under a tree, his cheek against a gun that he cradles in his arms.
I want my son to see a flaming Alef lighting the sky above us when he dreams at night; right now it is all I have.
“My mother,” she says, in a thick Russian accent, “used to bake her matzohs in secret, in the middle of the night, and stored them in a hole in our kitchen floor.”
I was seeing someone who wasn’t Jewish, though it had not been my intention to get involved. In fact, I tried hard not to—as Esther did, centuries ago. Perhaps she and I had something in common. Or did we?
We are alive, Josh and I, like the fruits of Jerusalem. The trees, figs, noise and clatter tell us we are alive, and we cannot take it for granted.
It sits on my shelf, a poor relation to the stone menorah with its carvings of children holding up our candles every Hanukkah. THAT menorah is weighty with memories. THAT menorah is staying home.