The Bride

A white leather pump splashes through a puddle on the curb but continues on its frenzied way. The light is red, but the woman in the full-skirted wedding dress runs across, her arms full of white ruffles and tulle. Cars screech to a halt, taxis honk as she glances briefly at them, but she can’t stop. Everyone is expecting her.

The Sabbath bride throws open the double doors at the back of the synagogue just as the people rise to their feet. Her chest is heaving and her hair has come loose to fall in curls around her face. Her cheeks are red from exertion but she can’t help smiling at the exhilarating feeling that she gets every time a room full of people turns to welcome her home.


Running over

Shabbat remains bottled all week, shelved and corked, but present. On Friday night it is unstopped and released into the world, filling every cup in the house and spilling over the table’s edge.

Shabbat continues pouring out, drenching my fingers and seeping into my shoes. Soon the entire house will be ankle-deep in Shabbat.

After the front door crashes open, Shabbat continues to pour out into the world.



Shabbat is a blanket large enough to cover my head and drop all the way over my feet. It is thick enough to block everything out, and comfortable enough to provide me with the best nap of my life.