Red Velvet

I wake early in a quiet

Bushwick walkup. Have

an espresso and grateful

for no delays or closures

jump on the subway. Bound

for Chelsea Market. Why,

on a perfect May morning,

warm wind waking my

face, the choice to be under

ground in brick and metal

to walk through Japanese

snacks and CBD-infused

vegan chocolates, and the

best almond croissants in

New York, a woman

in front of me in line at a

bookstore says. It’s

downstairs, she says,

and their sourdough is

to die for. I nod and say

thank you and overhear

a grandmother and

granddaughter behind me

in line say something in

Hebrew about the books

they are holding and I

turn and say, ivrit? And

I think it scares them, so I

say I’m Israeli but my

Hebrew is still leyat leyat

and they smile and say

they are on vacation. And

we share a pause that

doesn’t need words, and

I don’t tell them how much

I needed to see them this

morning. That I needed this

silent smile with people whose

language I am still learning

whose country I am still

learning. I don’t tell them

I wake every morning in

a panic searching for words

and scan my brain but find—none.

That sometimes I settle

on the least common

denominator—a slow

line or dirty dishes or that

thing I did that may have

pissed off that person. Because

maybe if I can solve one

conundrum I can erase this—

wordless state. But there is

no erasing, just breathing

a breath that can hold

questions. And later that

afternoon, sitting with my

daughter in a cafe filled

with flowers, the barista

walks up to me and hands

me a red velvet cookie

sprinkled with rose petals

and I exhale, just a little more.