Sunday's child

Sunday’s child knows what’s coming,
Monday’s child starts the week running.
Tuesday’s child is tied up in knots,
While Wednesday’s on schedule but sort of forgot
That Thursday’s needs help with a major display
That’s in shambles and can’t be put off ’til Friday—

While the Sabbath’s child (it would be understood)
Is blithe and bonny, gay and good.
He’s the king of the couplets, the crown of the rhyme,
The nursery’s champion; a child sublime.
He is always well-mannered, cheerful and meek,
For he dumps all his flaws on the rest of the week.


In a single word: בדיבור אחד

Come home early from work. Dance under the stars at midnight. Eat ice cream. Watch a movie. Play hide and seek with the cousins. Laugh until your ribs hurt. Go to synagogue. Play with the cat. Sleep and sleep and sleep some more.

They all sound so different, but when I listen to what everyone is doing tonight, I only hear one word, really.



Above the tablecloth

Tonight, I’ve invited Shabbat to come home with me.

I tried to act casual about it, but I can barely contain my excitement. I’ve laid out a freshly-laundered tablecloth, smoothed it over the surface of the table and covered it with laden bowls and platters. I meet Shabbat over the tabletop and we make small talk. We speak casually, as if we don’t know where the night will take us. Shabbat notices the ambiance of candleglow, and I know that Shabbat has been waiting all week for this meeting.

Music rises softly—nearby, someone is serenading my guest.

The tablecloth is rumpled. Plates tumble and crash to the floor. Sated and exhausted, I pour wine as words tumble from my mouth.


Pity date

When I come running in—late, frazzled, tossed together—you are already there. Everyone is gathered around you, and you look good. You probably spent the whole week choosing just the right everything, while I was keeping appointments and rushing to catch up and losing sleep over every workaday disaster.

Now though, my shoes are scuffed and considering how rushed I was to get here I’m lucky if my buttons are even aligned. If anyone saw the two of use together they’d probably assume you were on a pity date. I blush and hang back, letting you flirt with your gaggle of well-wishers.

But then a hand touches my lower back and there you are! “It’s so good to see you,” you whisper in my ear, words that I know you mean only for me.