What if I have smooth, drama-free surgery… and it fails? And I can never dance again?
The house smells of olive oil and smoke; scents of Chanukah that make me nostalgic for the childhood I’m in middle of.
“I absolutely love Chanukah,” I announce to no one in particular from my office chair in the dining room.
Aharon smiles as he strolls by, on the phone with his chavrusa in Eretz Yisrael, no doubt.
Ma comes out of the kitchen, dusting flour off her sweater. “Me, too,” she says. “You coming to help me fry latkes?”
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