Wrapped in a Leaf - Sample Pages

On a typical Sunday, my little brother and I would be sent off to the local movie theater. For the price of two quarters— one for him and one for me— we could disappear for hours: two double features and cartoons. If we were lucky and our mom had given us two more quarters, we could buy popcorn— one bucket each, so we wouldn’t have to share. Back then, there were ushers in red jackets who carried flashlights like gunslingers, shining them in the eyes of kids who were talking loudly —or worse. Later, we would walk home, taking the shortcut through the alley behind the theater— past garbage bins and cats, along street after street of identical row houses. Wondering if anyone would be home. But every now and then, something different happened. Our mother would take us to the park near our house. A picnic blanket on the grass. A bucket of fried chicken opened like a small miracle. Coleslaw. Macaroni salad. Rolls. Everything spread out just so. And then my brother and I would run. There was a trail that led away from the blanket and into the trees. We followed it eagerly— jumping over small streams, climbing fallen logs, going farther and farther. We had no thoughts of danger. Just a well-worn path that led us on and on. Was this it, we wondered? Were we really running away from home? And every time—without fail—the trail brought us back. Suddenly, we would emerge from the woods, and there it was again: the blanket, the chicken, our mother sitting cross-legged in the grass. It never felt like returning, because we hadn’t managed to get away. It felt like being delivered. We used to call it the magic woods. Not because we understood what was happening, but because no matter how far we ran, the forest always brought us home. Even when home was complicated, and tenderness wasn’t guaranteed, there was joy in that return. For that day. For that hour. We were safe enough. A blanket. Our mom. A trail that curved back on itself. A place that knew how to bring two children home.

I woke up at the ass crack of dawn after a night that ended far too late. My husband, apparently, had slept even less. Which is how I came upon a terrible sight no wife should have to process before coffee. My husband—naked— sitting at the desk. Writing. Why terrible? The chair. The chair is upholstered in beige muslin. I knew it was dangerous when I bought it. Because there are rules. Deeply unspoken guidelines for living. I didn’t even know I had this rule until that moment, but suddenly it revealed itself with the force of ancient law: Thou shalt not allow bare skin to touch upholstered furniture. There must always be at least one—preferably two—items of clothing between a butt and a chair. Underwear plus something else. Exceptions may be granted only in an emergency—and then only briefly. “How long have you been sitting there?” I asked, hoping the answer would be something survivable, like five minutes. “Hours,” he said. My heart sank. While he was excitedly trying to explain the poem he had just spent hours writing for me—about me—my mind was racing through practical considerations. Is muslin washable? Do we replace the chair? Does steam help? My husband is passionate and upholstery reckless. Once, when I was sick with a high fever, he went out and bought prepared food for Shabbos. He came home full of pride, narrating his conquests like a traveling minstrel as he laid one greasy container after another on the white comforter. “I got you chicken marsala,” he crooned. “Roast potatoes and coleslaw…” “Nooo,” I moaned to no one who could hear. There are also rules for hard surfaces. And knives. I have explained these rules to my husband repeatedly, like a patient missionary introducing civilization to someone raised in the wild. Who could blame me for shrieking when I came upon him slicing an apple directly on the marble countertop—which, for those unfamiliar with knives, ruins the blade. That is why I keep a cutting board nearby. I go through life trying to protect things. And he goes through life using them fully. I see: the chair the comforter the marble counter. He sees: a place to sit a place to eat a place to cut an apple. My husband has told me, repeatedly, how amazed he was that his father could peel an apple in one long spiral without the skin breaking. As if to say: my father knew how to do things. I don’t have the heart to tell him that it isn’t actually very hard. You just start peeling and stop when you’re done. He sees wonder in ordinary acts of steadiness and gentle precision. I see mechanics. My husband’s father survived Kristallnacht, Gorky Prison, Siberia, and two years in the killing fields of Battle of Stalingrad. And later he built a dollhouse for his granddaughters that they kept for decades. Hands that once held a weapon in one of the harshest battles in history later held wood tools tiny architectural pieces paint hinges windows to create a miniature house for children to play in. Which brings me back to my husband. Still naked. Still writing poetry. Still sitting on the muslin chair. There are moments in marriage when love and sanitation collide. This was one of them.

I had a dream that in a mall, next to a flower shop, there was a crematorium. And before you were cremated, you had fifteen minutes to talk to someone. About your life. Or whatever you wanted to talk about. So I volunteered to be the one who listens. I made it to the interview stage. The director was there— pretending to be someone about to die. Testing me. The office was bone-chilling cold. Which felt… unexpected. We sat under blankets, talking about how at our age 75 degrees starts to feel like maybe we should put the heat on. There was an assistant. I asked if he knew the woman who owned the flower shop next door. He said no. And then I found out— he had been the one to hear her fifteen minutes. I couldn’t understand it. How could you not know her? You were the one who heard the most important conversation of her life. And then I wondered— Would it be, though? Would people say what mattered? Or could someone spend their last fifteen minutes talking about a game, or the weather, or whether it was time to turn on the heat? Or ask — What’s my prognosis here? When can I go home? As if there were still somewhere else to go.

“I’d be thankful if you could keep your dog cared for and away from my yard.” The text contained no angry accusation— just a gentle correction of something assumed. Your dog. Your yard. I almost feel responsible. But I don’t have a dog. Or a yard. This one is easy to delete. Later, another text: “Hey sis—come over for Chinese food.” It arrives without introduction. Just an open door. For a moment, I am someone who has a sister nearby, someone who could just walk over, who knows which house, which table, which dish is always ordered twice. As if I’ve been expected. I look at the message. A moment longer than necessary.

When he was eleven, my husband and his two best friends buried a frog. They placed it in a shoebox and rode their bikes past the edge of town— as far as they could go. They spoke about him in solemn terms. Froggie. Dear, dear Froggie. They laid him to rest in what they believed was sacred ground. Years later, that land was paved over. Housing developments. A shopping mall. Right where Froggie was buried, a store. Then another. Somewhere else— in Tyczyn, Poland— his great-grandparents were buried. Years later, someone from the family went back. The cemetery was gone. A parking lot. A convenience store. We choose what to call sacred. And then— something else is chosen.

The Talmud says that every blade of grass has its own angel whispering: “Grow, grow.” I’ve often wondered—does the angel ever get bored? Ever yearn for a promotion to something grander, more dignified, more fulfilling? Or is that question of pure human arrogance? Blades of grass speak the language of pure receiving. No words— just yes to sunlight, yes to rain, yes to wind. They speak gratitude without ego, presence without performance, and the ancient tongue of: I’m exactly where I’m planted, and that’s enough. What if “grow, grow” is the assignment for which the angel has been waiting for eons? What if making one perfect thing grow is the most magnificent job in all creation?