One Hop at a Time     

Then, the day after Yom Kippur, I slipped down two stairs. My leg was askew, at an odd angle. I didn’t have to be told it was broken. Calmly, I called my son. “Please tell Daddy I’ve broken my leg. You’ll need to call an ambulance.”

I remember very little after. Hours later, I woke up in a hospital bed, my leg encased in a huge, heavy white cast. Later I learned that my leg was so badly broken that the X-rays were passed around the hospital department.