Tzofar  

I’m standing beneath a blue sky at the bus stop. There are a multitude of firsts in front of me. One of the neighbors is driving to school, shaky and uncertain, pausing for too long at the stop sign at our corner and waiting for each car at the cross street to pass. Another neighbor has brand-new shoes on, and she beams at me and toddles forward two steps.

“Look! Look, Mommy!” my son calls. He’s shaky, the bike tilting back and forth, but he’s gotten the pedal to the right position. “Watch, I almost have it!”

He doesn’t almost have it, but I look up. My phone buzzes again, and I glance down, track the names as they pop up. Tur’an. Mitzpeh Netofa. Tefahot.

“You missed it,” my son says with extreme disapproval.