Apron Strings 

Simchi pulls out a chair for his friend. As Yitzchok shyly dips his spoon into the pea soup, I ask him about his family and how it feels to live so far from yeshivah.  There’s friendly chatter, two boys squirming with discomfort, and one mother who’s doing the not-too-much-not-too-little balancing act. There are no little ones to be busy with anymore, no big ones home yet to carry the supper conversation.

I listen in as I slice pickles. They’ll be rushing off to mishmar soon. It’s a distance. Simchi will take his electric scooter and Yitzchok, Simchi’s bike.

I perk up. “Uh, Sim, we don’t have an extra helmet.”

His eyebrow flutters as if in warning, “We’re big boys.”