Where There’s Smoke 

think the sun is shining today, though it’s impossible to tell through the thick sheet of smoke that blots it out of the sky. There are clues: a faint glow to the smoke, like a halo around dark clouds; the way the ash rains down a little faster, coating my sheitel with white powder; that I can glimpse the movements of children playing across the street without flicking on my flashlight.

We’re not supposed to turn on flashlights unnecessarily. The United States is importing batteries at a rapid pace, but shipments are stilted by the lack of electricity and limited gas power. We’re in crisis mode, and people who waste power for no reason during the Dark Spring are subject to judgment and fines.

But I can see the kids as I walk to work: two little girls jumping rope in the dark, their singsong chanting breaking through the glum dimness. “In came the teacher with the big, fat stick, I wonder what I got in arithmetic….” It’s like a twisted memory of my own childhood, jumping rope with Avital Kruger and singing at the top of my lungs.

I don’t like to think about my childhood. I don’t like to think about Avital.