motherhood and madness

               We meet in a coffee shop in Zichron. We knew each other as  children, but immigration pulled us apart and even though she is mostly a complete stranger, I feel like I know her so well. Her laugh is familiar, her smile too. She read my book and she want's to know more. She talks like a Canadian, but occasionally a syllable escapes reminding me of her humble beginnings. Her friends are all having affairs, she tells, me, well not all of them, but many. Their husbands know, though some of them don’t. They seem happy, but she is confused. What’s the right thing to do ? Marriage is complicated, especially so after many years. We aren’t supposed to live this long. We are all pushing the edges. We look like we are forty. We wear shorts, our skin is clean, our hair has been straightened to hide its indigenous roots - it’s easier this way. Sometimes it’s dry or too fine. Sometimes it’s dull. Mine is thinning where my wig...

The endless needs of the world are always knocking on the doors of a women's creative time - it seems there is always something more important to do.   The fridge is empty because they never stop eating - baruch Hashem. I have to get to the shops because tomorrow begins the Jewish festival of Sukkot which means the supermarkets will be either packed or closed over the next few days.  I return from the supermarket and unpack the shopping, hiding the Oreos high up on the top shelf. I leave most of the vegetables out in a straw basket on the counter because the fridge is permanently set to eventually freeze everything to death, which is partly why it's empty. I water the neglected flowers on the window sill and the pineapple I am trying to grow. I drag a load of tangled clothes out of the washing machine and dump it on the dining room table. Before I can hang them I’ll have to clear some space on the line which stands in the hallway - a sobering reminder of the ...