Summer in the City

You wouldn't know it by the 20 degree temperature drop in NYC between yesterday and today, but summer is coming to the city.

And how, you may ask, do I know?

These babies, parked on every corner. 

Now, I haven't really embraced the food truck phenomenon when it comes to actual meals, but I love a good ice cream truck, and there is none better than Mr. Softee.

And nothing says summer in the city like chocolate ice cream and rainbow sprinkles in a cake cone, handed to me through the glass window of a truck parked on 51st and 6th while the traffic flies by.

Strength, Survival and Sisterhood

We knew the end was near - had known for some time.

My two sisters and I sat by her bed, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest, comforted by each other and a lifetime of memories, and secure in the knowledge that she would soon be with our father - her beloved husband of nearly sixty-five years - who had passed away the year before.

When she stirred, we all snapped to attention. Her time awake was getting shorter and shorter, and none of us wanted to miss a minute.

"I need to tell you a story."

I could see instantly that something was different. Her eyes were clear, her voice strong.

"I have a sister," she said.

Our faces were masks of confusion. My mother had always told us she was an only child, and the only one in her family who survived the Holocaust.

We didn't dare speak as she continued her story.

"You know that I was twenty when the Nazis stormed through our town and took us away. But it wasn't just my parents and me. It was my sister too. Her name was Marion. She sat next to me in the cattle car when the soldiers slammed the doors and padlocked them from the outside. She was with me when the car pulled through the gates of Auschwitz. They sent my mother and me in one direction, and my father and Marion in another. My mother was screaming and Marion was crying. And I just watched as she was herded away. That was the last time I ever saw her."

A tear slid down my mom's cheek as she pulled her arm out from under the blanket and gazed at the tattoo on her forearm. The numbers faded, but standing out in stark contrast to her white skin.

"Every day of the four years I was in the camp I looked for her, and when the camps were liberated I tried again, but no one remembered seeing her after that first day. I came to America, I met your father, I raised you girls, I built a life, and I tried to forget what came before. But I couldn't.

Mom's eyes were clear again as she searched each of our faces.

"Please find her."

Exhausted from the effort of her story, she drifted off to sleep. And never woke again.

On the third day of shiva, while we were eating breakfast, the letter was delivered, addressed to my mother.

The plain white envelope was simple, but it was the handwriting that made it stand apart from the rest of the junk mail and bills that had piled up since the funeral. The address was written in fountain pen in a beautiful script that looked both meticulous and old fashioned.

Curious, I opened it and began to read.

Dear Eva,

I am your sister, Marion.

***********************************

This piece of fiction commemorates Yom HaShoah - Holocaust Remembrance Day

We honor the six million Jews who were killed, celebrate the enduring spirit of those who survived, and promise that we will never forget, and never stop telling their stories.

A Writing Community and A Family of Writers

My stomach churned as I clicked "add your link" and sat back to wait.

I had complicated feelings about the story. For five hours that day I sat at my computer and took myself back to eighth grade. To those days of fear, anxiety and longing to belong. For five hours I examined memories long buried, and laid myself bare.

For the six months that I had been blogging my writing had been light, but I had begun to think that maybe I had something more. Something important.

I felt the words marinating inside me, their flavors deepening, but not quite ready to be consumed.

But the day they were ready to be written, I knew.

So I sat, and I wrote. And it was different. It wasn't light this time, but a little dark, a little complicated, a little sad.

And when the last line was typed, I went back to read what I had written and I was stunned at what had come out of me.

I sat for a minute, wondering what to do. My first instinct was to leave it in my drafts folder. To save it for me and me alone. But there was a whisper in my head that got louder each time I read back through my story.

Share.

I wanted to share it. I wanted people to read it. Because I thought that, more than anything I had ever written before, these words said "this is me." It was honest, and it was real, and I was proud of it.

So I published it to my blog, but it wasn't quite enough. Because the people who read my blog - my parents, my sisters, my family - knew the story already. I wondered what people who didn't know the story would think. Whether my writing would stand up. Whether they would understand what I felt, what I was trying to do.

I had been lurking at Yeah Write for the summer, reading excellent writing and trying to summon the courage to join the party.

That day, I found it.

So I added my link to the grid. For an hour I waited while my post was moderated. I knew I would get an e-mail when my story was approved, but I still pressed refresh every thirty seconds.

And when my story finally appeared on the grid, a fresh wave of anxiety washed over me.

What if it's not good enough? What if no one likes it?

But then the comments started coming in. Supportive and wonderful comments from other writers. From people who knew. Who understood what it was like to put your words out there and hope for the best.

One that day, the day of my very first Yeah Write post, I found more than my voice. I found a community. A family.

And I am grateful.

Happy, happy 2nd birthday to Yeah Write and to the amazing ladies who keep it running.

Endless thanks for giving us a community and a family to come back to week after week.

A Lot Can Happen In A Week

One Week.

Two Trips.

Four Plane Rides.

One New Baby Boy.

One Big Sister.

Twenty Dozen Cookies With Blue Sprinkles.

One Exhausted (and Happy) Family.

And Normal Life Resumes...

A Beautiful Blur

I took this picture this past Sunday as my car sped along the Henry Hudson Parkway at sunrise, heading towards LaGuardia Airport.

It's a beautiful blur, much like the last two weeks have been.

And today at noon, I will get back in the car for one more trip to the airport, and at 2:30 I will board a plane heading back to Cleveland to spend the weekend with family and friends to celebrate my sister's new baby boy.

For two seconds I considered skipping this weekend, since it meant another flight, more time away from work, and a third trip in two weeks. But then my mom said something to me, something that has stuck in my head ever since.

"You have to celebrate simchas" 

(loosely translated in English as "happy things")

And she is so incredibly right. So much can go wrong in a lifetime, that when good things happen, it is our privilege and our responsibility to celebrate them.

So this afternoon I will fly to Cleveland, hug my sister again, play with my niece, and cuddle my nephew. I will smile and laugh with my family, and gather around this brand new life that has graced us.

You have to celebrate simchas. And this weekend, we will.

Dear Sister K

Dear K,

Early yesterday morning I was sitting on your couch cuddling your four day old baby boy when you came out of your room with your still-little girl, now a newly minted big sister. You carried her into the kitchen for breakfast and then sat her on your lap as she ate Cheerios and chattered away, bright and cheerful as the sun. And you chattered right back as you held her snack cup of cereal, checked to make sure the new baby was still sleeping, and made lists for this upcoming weekend's festivities.

And I watched. Awed. Amazed.

The four days I spent at your house were a whirlwind of family, food, and the frenzy that comes with a new baby who arrives smack in the middle a major holiday. And there is nowhere else I would rather have been than right there with you and with this ever-expanding family of ours.

I know how hard it must be to have a new baby and an energetic almost-two year old at the same time. But I hope that through the sleepless nights and the haze of exhaustion you know what I know every time I see you with your babes.

That you are a beautiful mother. A fun and interesting one. You took to this new, most important, job quickly and seamlessly. You are raising bright and happy kids, and I love watching you do it. When it's my turn, everything I know about motherhood I will have learned from you, and I hope that I can be half as good at it as you are. It is a remarkable thing, really, to watch your sister become a mother, and it is my greatest pleasure to look up to you as you blaze this path for L and me to follow.

Thank you for having us in your house with all our noise and confusion during this huge transition in your life. For giving us babies to love. For being you. Keep doing exactly what you're doing, and if you need us, we are always here.

I love you, and I am so incredibly proud of you.

Love,

Sam