High Holidays 

          Mica was elbow deep in a sink full of sticky dishes when the oven went off. For a
moment, she couldn’t remember what it was for. Was it pre-heating? Did she have something in
there? A quick glance over her shoulder told her the cake was ready.
          “Yael!” She yelled, but with the rush of water splattering across metal and pyrex and her
speaker projecting the jazz station, she doubted her sister would hear her.
          No matter. Mica pushed the sink handle to a resting position, leaving a soapy residue to
mark her place, and shook her hands dry. On went a slightly crusty mitt. The open oven released a sweet smell of honey cake and a warm glow. A quick poke with her toothpick came out clean and the cake was ready to cool. What was next? The challah was still rising, the chicken bubbling away in happy spurts on the stove. Potatoes and carrots, she decided, and slid a pan jostling with raw vegetables into the oven.
          “Yael!” She yelled again. “Come down, please!”
          The dishes could wait a bit, but the living room was still in an absolute state and the
dining table needed to be set. Yael had promised to help after her class, but instead she had
drifted into the house with a heaviness like Atlas on a lunch break. Mica had let her reset in her
room for a few hours, but she would need to be down soon to—
          “Coming!” Came her sister’s voice from upstairs. The creak of the floorboards, always so
annoying when they had been kids and hadn’t wanted their parents to know they were awake yet, and an unfortunate thud.
          Mica started righting pillows on the couch, then decided better. Table first.
          Mica had always loved setting the table. The artistry of it, the way it brought her family
together. Four places tonight, each with their own embroidered placemat. Each with a plate from their special occasions cabinet, a mated fork and knife, a neatly folded napkin, and everyone’s
unique kiddish cup. In the center lay the markings of a Shabbat night, with the extra flavor of
Rosh Hashanah. The candlesticks that Yael would light with carefully cupped hands, face
glowing warm and flickery. The sweating bottle of Manischewitz that Oren would bless. And the
challah plate, currently empty. Her job would be pulling away the cover to reveal a round and
golden challah.
          Honey, she was forgetting honey. And apples. Yael had gone out into the apple orchard
to pick some, though Mica had covertly added some store bought ones to the pile. Thick, amber
honey slowly pooled into her chosen glass bowl. Her hands moved without further guidance:
first washing the apples, then cutting them into thin slices.
          Behind her, “Wow, there’s so much going on here.”
          Mica gestured towards the living room with her knife. “Neaten up the living room,
please?”
          “Yeah, yeah.” Yael said, but her voice was fond. “Ma leaves for one weekend and
suddenly you’re a dictator.”
          “Uh huh.” Apples done and displayed in a swirling pattern. The table glittered in the
warm lamp light.

          In the living room, Yael was putting books back onto the shelf. She had straightened her
hair which always made her look uncannily off, like a sister from another dimension. Mascara
was slathered on her eyelashes and her gold eyeshadow complimented her saffron maxi dress.  A slightly tarnished magen david hung from her neck.
          “Go get dressed, I’ll handle the rest.” Yael said.

          “Are you sure? The dishes need to be cleaned and the potatoes have thirty minutes left.
Also the challah is almost done rising, then it needs to be put into the oven—”
          “Yeah, I’ve got it. Go on.” Yael jerked her head towards the stairs. “You don’t have to do
everything yourself.”
          Mica could have argued that Yael hiding in her room or refusing to help set a menu had
forced her to do everything herself. Instead she pulled her little sister into a quick hug. “Love
you.”
          The second floor of the house was mostly dark, but for a sliver of golden evening light
escaping Yael’s western facing room. Mica’s room was cool and quiet. Everything in its place,
including her dress laid out on the bed, waiting for her form to fill it. She took her time getting
ready. The ritual soothed her frayed nerves. When she was done, she glanced in the mirror. Her
eyes were bright in the darkness, her smile tentative.
          The doorbell rang across the house. A tinny ding dong of a bell that had given up the will
to live years before they had moved into the house. Mica smoothed down her skirt one last time
and hurried down the stairs.
          The thick glass of the front door hid the new arrival, but their shape swam tall and broad.
Anticipation bubbled up into her throat. Her palm slick with sweat swiped at the knob. It took
her two tries to open it.
          “Oh. It’s only you.”
          Oren stood in the doorway, holding a duffel bag. He wore an amber cardigan over a white
button up. His collar was slightly crooked. He must have attempted to control his thick curls
because they were only half as rambunctious as normal.

          “Love you too, sis.” He said and leaned in for a hug. She squeezed him tightly, it had
been too long, and led him inside.
          “Can’t believe you got Yael to help.”
          Yael turned from the sink and stuck out her tongue. She had changed the radio to top
forty and was singing along.
          “Excuse you, I’m an adult. I know the importance of sharing the burden of housework.”
          Oren and Mica exchanged a look. “She came down ten minutes ago.”
          “Figures.”
          “Betrayal in my own family!” Yael flipped a soapy hand to land dramatically on her
forehead. “I’m not sure I can go on… someone else will have to finish the dishes for me…”
They all laughed, and Yael continued to scrub away, as Mica checked the potatoes and slid the
challah into the oven.
          Oren leaned against the counter. “He’s late.”
          “Don’t start.” Yael’s playful tone dropped.
          Mica pushed a potato around with the spatula, cheeks hot in the face of the oven.
          “I’m just stating facts.”
          Mica straightened and slid the oven mitts off. What else could she do? Make a salad
maybe, it was a very carbs heavy meal.
          “Mica doesn’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear it.”
          She took out some lettuce, slightly wilted but still good for now. Walnuts, a leftover
apple, cucumber, and a recycled pasta sauce jar filled with homemade dressing. The heavy thunk of the knife, the wet crunch of vegetables yielding under her pressure.
          “If he doesn’t show, I don’t want her to be too distraught. Remember that time—”

          “I’m right here.” She said. Oren fell silent. “I’m an adult too. I can handle
disappointment.”
          Yael hummed her agreement, then started singing a little louder to the song on the radio.
Oren went to take his bag upstairs, the gentle creak of old floorboards marking his path. Mica let
the sounds wash over her.
          When there were five minutes left on the challah, the doorbell rang again. Mica sprung
off the couch, unbalancing the cat that had deigned to grace them with her presence. She
smoothed down her hair and pulled at the ends of her skirt.
          “You look great,” Yael said from the coffee table. She and Oren were working on a
puzzle. “Everything is going to go great.”
          Mica glanced, inadvertently at Oren. His lips were pressed tightly together, but he twisted
them into a smile. “Go get ‘em.”
          The thick glass, hiding the figure’s true form once more. She took a deep breath in.
Released it. It would be a good new year.
          “Miccie!” Her father said in the open doorway. “You look beautiful.”
          He pulled her into a hug. He smelled the same: laundry soap and the spice of his aftershave. His arms were warm and comforting. When they pulled apart, she was greeted by a
familiar face turned strange. The skin around his eyes was crinkled, but his eyes were still bright
and green. His hair was more salt than pepper and fell in thin curls around his face. Had his face always been so gaunt? Had he always seemed so old?
          “I brought something for you,” He said, holding out a gift bag. It was decorated with an
anthropomorphized menorah. Each candle made a different face. The bag was crinkled and someone else’s name was written on the tag.

          She took the present. At his prompting, she pulled away the worn tissue and pulled out a
smooth silver box. A hard drive.
          “Some videos from your childhood. In case you ever get nostalgic.”
          She pulled him in for another hug. “Thank you,” She murmured into his sweater. “I love
it.”
          It was weird, sitting between Oren and her father, Yael across from her. It had been years
since he had visited, even more years since he had come into the house. The last time he had
come inside was at Yael’s seventh birthday party. He had sat there awkwardly, not talking to
anyone, only smiling when Mica met his eyes.
          Before that… maybe it had been pre-divorce? Her parents’ faces, tense and young. Yael
and Mica squished into a bench, tracing words onto each other’s thighs. Love you and Sorry and Later.
          It was weird, Mica thought, but not bad. She both wished her mother could have been
there to complete the tableau and was also ruthlessly thankful that she had been called away for business.
          “Everything looks so beautiful,” Her father said, gesturing around them. The table, his
kids, the house he had bought for a family he had lost. “I can’t wait to try everything you made.”
          “Mica did such a good job,” Yael said, smiling and fiddling with the matchbox. “You’d
think she spent all day on it, but she went to services and everything.”
          “Oh? Are you still at the same Shul?”
          Mica adjusted her fork and knife so that they were aligned. “Yeah. The congregation is
getting a bit old but it’s nice to be somewhere I’m known.” In college she had tried joining her
Hillel, but had balked at the cliqueness. “Mrs. Rosen was asking about you the other day.”

          “Do you go to services in Durham?” Her father asked Oren, his words cutting past hers,
two cars almost but not quite colliding.
          “Sometimes.” Oren was flipping through a prayer book, letting it fall onto pages that
were often opened. When they were younger, they had drawn pictures in the margins. Only
Jewish symbology, Oren had said, sounding out the last word. So, there were bulbous
pomegranates, hamsas with too many fingers, and lopsided magen davids.
          “His fiance is in rabbinical school right now.” Yael chimed in. “He’s in New York right
now but is graduating in the spring.”
          “Oof, long distance. That must be hard.”
          Oren shrugged. “We make it work. Yael, why don’t you light the candles?”
          The scratching of match against the box, years of candle lightings making deep grooves
in the side. Yael’s face scrunched up in frustration for a moment, but then a flame burst into the
world and she grinned proudly. Her hands, guiding the flame to the first wick, then the second.
Flame engulfing the string. Flaring, then settling into a steady pulse. Mica’s hands moved
without conscious effort in three circular motions before covering her eyes.
          The combination of their voices had a dreamlike memory quality to it. Oren’s melodic
tenor, Yael’s lilting soprano, her own rusty alto, and their father’s deep bass. An orchestra that
had forgotten to include its bass for years, making do with only a cello, violin, and viola. How
complete it sounded. How odd to realize they had been missing something in the first place.
          The prayer ended, she released her hands. Like always, Yael let out a false gasp, “The
candles have magically been lit!” They all laughed, her father joining them a second later.
          Oren led them through the kiddush and Mica looked at each of their faces illuminated in
the soft glow of the candlelight. Yael looked thoughtful, thin eyebrows pulled together, mouth serene. Oren’s pointer finger followed the Hebrew letters on the page, his head bobbing along to the rhythm. And her father. Looking back at her with a faint smile on his face. Like he also felt
the rightness of this moment, how all of the pieces were coming together just as they should.
          He mouthed, thank you. And she didn’t know whether to say you’re welcome or mouth
thank you back.
          Warm, steaming challah dipped into the honey bowl. The chicken was soft and yielding,
sauce spreading its greedy fingers across her plate. The potatoes could have been cooked a little longer, but the carrots burst with flavor. Everyone had half heartedly spooned salad on their
plates. Without her mother around, she had to be the one to nag them into eating their greens.
          Yael was talking about classes, detailing each and every moment of her week. Her life
was a whirlwind that Mica’s hadn’t been during college. Their father listened attentively.
          Mica took a long sip of Manischewitz. Shadows stretched across the walls in a dance of
gesturing hands and nodding heads. It had grown dark as they ate and the sky was heavy without the moon’s light.
          “Oren, when will the wedding be?” Her father was asking.
          “We haven’t decided yet.”
          “Are you prepared to move across the country to whatever congregation will accept
him?”
          “I’m not going to talk about this with you.” Oren’s voice was as cold as the first moment
of contact with a pool, skin still balmy from a hot tub.
          The room felt darker, the candles no longer burning bright enough to fight away the
shadows. Mica took another sip of her wine. Tried to grasp onto the warmth that had filled her
but it had already slammed and locked the door behind it. Across from her, Yael’s eyes were very wide. Mica glanced back down. She couldn’t speak. It was like someone had carefully painted her mouth with honey, sealing it closed. Her plate was empty but she picked up her fork anyways. It weighed heavy and useless in her grip.         

          “Mica has been working on a new initiative to reduce bullying at her school,” Yael said, voice like the pop of a champagne bottle. “She’s been working really hard on it. It’s going to be implemented this… November?”

           “December.” Mica corrected, on rote.

          “Maybe I’ll be around to hear about it.” The warmth rushed back in, the candles smiled sweetly up at their adoring audience. Mica met her father’s twinkling eyes. “My lease is up and I miss this town. What do you say, wouldn’t that be nice?”

          “I’d love that.”
          He set down his fork. There was still a lonesome potato on his plate. “Then it’s settled.
Did you say Mrs. Rosen was asking about me? I’ve been meaning to stop by the old stomping
grounds.”
          “You could come to Yom Kippur services next week?”
          “Let’s do it. Oren? Will you be here?”
          Her brother shook his head. “I’m going up to New York.”
          “And I have midterms,” Yael sighed, woe is me expression painted onto her face.
          “More Miccie time for me then,” Her father said.
          “Shall we?” Yael asked, picking up an apple slice. Mica took her own, cool and wet
between her fingertips. They each dipped their apple into the thick liquid, then pressed them
together in faux cheers. Sticky honey dragged between the apples in perfect strings of connection before breaking and dropping back into the bowl.

          “Shanah Tovah!” A crunch, cool tartness filling her mouth, honey coating her tongue.
“To a sweet new year.”
***
          A boy is wearing a sheet as an outfit. A bright blue shirt peeks out from underneath. He’s
holding a towering walking stick and trying out different facial expressions. A smile, a look of
shock, an exaggerated frown. Off to the side, a very young voice says, “Renny up me!” The boy
scowls and turns to face the speaker. “Not now! And it’s Moses!” Another voice, slightly older
but still younger than the boy says, “Yaya, your line is ‘baaa.’” The boy turns back to the
camera and strikes a pose. He almost drops the stick. The first young voice whines, “Renny!”
The person behind the camera says, “This just in! Instability behind the scenes of the highly
anticipated Pesach play production.” A chime of voices, including from the boy, “Daaaad!”
***
          Mica felt the first fat raindrop as she pulled open the car door. Above them, the sky was a
suffocating, heavy gray. She slid into the passenger seat, moving a pile of books and empty
takeout containers to do so.
          “Sorry about the mess, Monkey,” Her father said, leaning in for a quick side hug.
          “Ready?”
          Mica pulled on her seatbelt. Tugged it. Yes, it was secure. All was fine. “Ready.”
          Her father twisted around to grab something from the back. A bright pink and orange
paper bag. “Want any? There’s a bagel and if you dig deep I left some donut holes for you.”
          “Sorry, I’m fasting.”

          “Oh, right.” He pulled a powdered sugar donut out of the bag and dropped the bag onto
the dashboard. Mica moved it to the center console. Donut in hand, he pulled the car into drive.
The gear stick was left white and sticky with powdered sugar.
          “How has your Yom Kippur been?” He asked, around a bite of donut. Only one of his
hands was on the wheel. The other hung out of the window.
          “Good. I went to Kol Nidre last night. I always forget how much standing is involved.”
          At least rabbinic tradition told them not to wear leather on Yom Kippur which had morphed into everyone wearing sneakers.
          “Cool. Listen, I wanted to ask you something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone
about this conversation.” He took his eyes off of the road to glance at her. Her hand tightened
around her seatbelt strap, the polyester digging into her palm.
          “Sure.”
          He looked back at the road, just in time to make a hard break for a stop sign. “Is Oren
mad at me?”
          Mica considered her answers. “Yes” was the truest answer, but his anger was like
glowing embers. Ever present, but not roaring inside of him. Would telling her father lead to the
flames being stoked?
          “It’s been awhile since you’ve spent time together,” Mica said slowly. “He just needs to
adjust to your presence again.”
          Her father nodded and made a sharp turn onto the shop lined street that was synonymous
with West Asheville. Brightly colored murals rushed past. Mica had to crane her neck to see the
speedometer. They were going a little too fast.

          “It’s not healthy to hold onto these things,” Her father was saying, glancing over his shoulder just in time to avoid changing into a lane that already held a car. Someone honked. He huffed good naturedly. “I’d love to talk to him about it. In the spirit of Yom Kippur.” They stopped at the light right before the highway. The slow pitter patter of rain made its steady way down their windshield. Like old friends greeting each other at services, the droplets merged and separated. Mica imagined one particularly friendly droplet as the person carrying the torah around the sanctuary to be touched by kiss brushed tzitzit and prayer books.

          “Do you think you could set up a meeting between us?”
          Mica glanced over. Both hands on the steering wheel now, his knuckles white with
pressure. A smear of powdered sugar left behind from where he had frantically turned it to keep
from colliding with another car.
          An image, unwanted, sprung up in her mind. A car, bumping against the guardrail. Over
and over again. The persistent scrape of metal against metal. Sobbing like white noise.
          “Sure. He’s coming down for Sukkot next weekend.”
          “Perfect.”
          They drove in silence for a while. The sky was almost black above them. The rain against
the metal roof sounded like little feet. The highway was encased in green. Dark and wet with the
storm, the trees rushed past as a continuous blur.
          “This place has changed so much,” Her father was saying. “I remember when West
Asheville used to be boxed up buildings and graffiti.”
          It had been ten years since her neighborhood had gotten a facelift. Ten years, almost half
her lifetime.

          “It’s caused a lot of controversy. The shops are nice, but a lot of lower income families
can’t afford to live here anymore.” Half of her students fell into that demographic. Once their
families had lived in small houses with scraggly lawns only a few streets away from hers. Now
they were boxed into new apartment complexes that were as gray as the sky above them.
          “The price of progress,” He shrugged. “What can we do about it?”
          Mica didn’t answer. It was Yom Kippur, a holiday of asking for forgiveness, making
amends, and seeking reconciliation. She would absorb this new information about his politics
and let it go. She had never liked arguing, anyways, unlike her siblings. How un-Jewish of you,
Yael would tease.
          “They haven’t changed any of the billboards,” He said, with a laugh. “That’s for sure.”
          Thunder rumbled its agreement, lightning flashed a smile a moment later.
          Her father leaned forwards, staring up. His foot, still pressed into the gas pedal. A line of
red before them, wavering through the veil of water. “G-d, we’re driving right into the—”
          “Look out!” Mica’s hands, on the steering wheel. She couldn’t remember putting them
there, but she was pushing the car into the next lane, narrowly avoiding a stopped vehicle, its
hazards waving wildly.
          They swerved, skidded, the roads were too wet, she couldn’t even see where the lines
were, did he even have his lights on? He was moving them back into a lane, shoving her hands
away. Honking harmonized with the steady bass of thunder.
          His voice was tight, “Calm down, Miccie. I know what I’m doing. I’ve been driving since
before you were born.”
          He was right and he was wrong. She remembered the unending movement, his foot heavy against the gas pedal as he spasmed. It hadn’t really been his fault. Yael sobbing. Mica frozen,  gauze in her mouth keeping her from crying out. Her mother, years later, telling her that he had been skipping his epilepsy medicine. The slow stop, a friendly face looking concerned through her window.
          She swallowed that down, like she always did. Pressed it firmly into the corner of her
mind where she didn’t venture. Forgiveness, she reminded herself. For a moment, the word felt
as hollow as her hungry stomach.
          “Sorry.”
          “I forgive you,” He flashed a smile. How funny, how apt.
          They drove slowly, traffic stopped and started. The rain was so thick they could barely
see in front of them. The windshield wipers worked overtime. Her hand could have been
superglued to her seatbelt. Her father hummed, played with the radio. One hand laid casually on
the wheel.
          “Have you looked at any places to rent?” She asked. “I was on apartments.com yesterday
and—”
          “It’ll be a bit before I’m ready to leave. I have to wait for my lease to end.”
          “Right, of course.” Inside of her, disappointment curled up into an indentation of itself.
          Slowly, the red lights disappeared. One by one, blinking off as their drivers sunk their
feet into the gas. Her father did the same, one handedly weaving around cars until they were
moving at almost normal speeds.
          Their exit, advertised on the barely visible sign. They were three lanes over. Her father
was tapping out a song onto the wheel. No one likes a backseat driver, Mica told herself. When
she couldn’t wait any longer, she said, “The next exit is ours.”

          A nod of appreciation, he was changing lanes with such reckless abandon. It wasn’t the
same. It wasn’t.
          Another time, street lights danced across Yael’s angelic sleeping face. The car felt drawn
to the shoulder. She kept feeling it drift, then correct. Her father’s face, dark then lit up in full
detail. Eyelids sinking, then straining upwards. Oren had his headphones on in front of her. They
had gotten into a fight earlier, he wouldn’t want to be disturbed. The car, lost in the ocean of
night, getting so close to the shoulder. “Dad!” She had yelled. “Dad, wake up!”
          They were going slower, but not slow enough. The road was thick with water. They were
so close. A few more minutes and she’d be sitting in the pews. A few more hours and the sound
of the shofar would release them from the heavy constraints of the chag. He pulled into the
center turn lane. Turned to her, “Do you think Oren will listen to me?”
          “Depends on what you’re going to say.” The road was empty in front of them. The
entrance to the synagogue was right there.
          “I want to put it all behind us. I don’t think we can move on until he forgives me.”
          Sitting in the pews and talking to all of the old Bubbes. They loved to hear about her
students’ exploits, the funny things they had said recently, all of the artwork Mica had received.
          “Are you going to apologize?” She asked.
          He frowned. “I never understood what he was mad at me for. Your mother filled his head
with all of these ideas.” Neglect and carelessness, her mother had always called it, and the courts had agreed. It was the little things. Forgetting to make them lunch, forgetting to give them lunch money. Being late to pick them up, bringing them late to school. She had learned a lot in those years. How to make simple meals, how to trim her own nails and do her own hair, how to get Yael to brush her teeth.

          It was the big things. Not taking his medicine and having a seizure as they drove home
from the dentist. Falling asleep as they drove home from her mother’s place.
Mica didn’t say anything for a long moment. She could feel his gaze on hers, hungry for
affirmation. She imagined agreeing. Only then would he turn into the parking lot, make jokes
with the security guard, walk into the shul and marvel at how it hadn’t changed one bit.
          “I’ve always been proud of Oren for holding onto his anger.” She said. “I don’t
understand how but—he’s always been strong. Good at looking out for himself.”
          She couldn’t meet his eyes. This car, the rain unending, had she ever existed in a moment
outside of this one? Would she ever leave it?
          “I’m his father,” Her father said. “I’m due a little respect. It was in the past. Everything
turned out fine.”
          Because their mother had been there. Because they had each other. Mica couldn’t say
this. She imagined Oren voicing her thoughts, Yael humming her agreement.
          They sat there. Him, waiting for a response. Her, unwilling to give one.
          “Let’s go. We’re going to be late.” He turned onto the road. He didn’t look. Mica saw the
car just as he did. Why hadn’t he looked? A glint of light through the haze. There was a moment
enough to diagnose the churning feeling in her stomach. Resignation. The shattering sound of
two metal beasts colliding. Two rain drops, merging. Her hand was tight on the seatbelt.
          Everything felt dizzily familiar. The airbag found her.
          Mica came back to herself on the side of the road. Rain had plastered her hair to the nape
of her neck, turned her dress transparent, and her sneakers sodden. Through the curtain of water, she watched her father charm the victims of his carelessness. Thought, he’s going to get away with this, like he always does. Thought, Yael never would’ve forgiven me if I had died here
because of him. Thought, this is it. The last thing.
          She started walking. Every step was heavy with rainwater and newfound conviction. If
she just kept walking, she could finally exit this dreary moment and enter a new one. One filled
with Bubbes who would bundle her up and insist she eat. Saying, oh who cares, when she
brought up the fast. An arm tried to grab at her, she jerked out of its grasp. Miccie? He said,
Where are you going? Mica walked on. She didn’t turn back.
***
          A little girl with messy braids cries. She’s wearing a blue sparkly dress and refusing to
get out of her car seat. Hamantaschen crumbs litter her face. The person holding the camera
says, “Miccie is upset because Yael got to be Barbie, even though she agreed that her sister
could claim the most coveted role.” The little girl lets out a pitiful wail. “It not fair.” The person
holding the camera adjusts it so he can hold onto her hand. Her hand is engulfed in his. “I know,
Miccie. Life isn’t fair.”
***
          The sky was bright blue through the palm leaves of the sukkah’s roof. Wet grass tickled
her face, her bare legs, her palms. She imagined earthworms wriggling under her, working hard
despite the chag. Something, someone, kicked her ankle.
          “Scoot over.”
          She did and Oren filled the impression her body had left in the grass. They needed to
mow the lawn soon. His shoulder bumped into hers. “I don’t think he’s coming,” His voice, as
gentle as the rasp of the lulav.
          “I know.”

          Flies flew around them but Mica felt no animosity towards them. Eventually, there would
be fireflies. She loved catching fireflies as a kid. Maybe they could catch some later. They would
run around the apple orchard, yelling out their total score. In the end, they always released them.
          It would be cruel otherwise.
          “Where did we put the—oh, it’s floor time and no one told me?” The sunlight turned
Yael into a silhouette of curly hair and a puffy sundress. She nestled herself into Mica’s other
side. Her two siblings, their bare arms pressed against hers. The blue sky innocently proclaimed
that it had never been anything but blue. Warm air drafted into the sukkah, ruffling the sheets
they had hung up.
          “I don’t know if I can ever see him again.” Mica said into the air.
          “Yeah.” Oren said.
          “Sorry, Mica.” Yael wrapped her fingers around Mica’s. Squeezed.
          “It is what it is.”
***
          A little girl spins a dreidel on a red rug. She looks up and grins when she notices she’s
being filmed. “Daddy! Come dance!” She says. Behind her, candles drip blue and white wax.
Five candles tonight. The camera jolts, then steadies, lower than before. A man steps into frame. He is much taller than the girl, with dark thick hair and wire glasses. He has a patchy beard his wife thinks is ridiculous. He doesn’t look at the camera, but at the little girl instead. “What type of dance should we do, Miccie Monkey?” He asks. “Can you spin me?” She responds almost immediately. He takes her hands in his and they run in a tight circle. Her long curly hair spans around her. He’s grinning, she’s grinning, they are blurs in the candlelight. The camera becomes unbalanced and falls to the ground. Everything goes dark.