The Death of a Jew      

So I told them.

I wanted them to know about the couple who loved spreading light and goodness and giving. About little Moshe, the two-year-old who survived.

I spoke freely, unaware that I’d stumbled into a time warp — my body in 2024, my words rooted firmly in 2008. Unaware that my lips moved and my vocal cords thrummed and my brain formulated sentences transmitted from another age. Sixteen years ago — plus a thousand more. When I was a young mother with the luxury to fully grieve the murder of two Jews I’d never met, and now never would.

And while I spoke from that archaic place, I watched my children’s eyes.

Before you start judging, they did nothing wrong, okay?