Gateway 2019 Editors-in-Chief: Ruthie Davis & Hannah Treatman Art Editor: Sarah Eckstein Indik Assistant Editors: Ruby Benjamin, Lillian Bernstein, Helen Rudoler, Maya Langer, Serena Levingston, Michal Loren, Helena Federman, Ida Narli Faculty Advisor: Ms. Hallie Anderson
Jack M. Barrack Hebrew Academy, Bryn Mawr, PA
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Yasi Stein
table of contents
Portrait Indirect Cantaloupe Afropunk Gooey Hot Fudge on an Even Hotter Summer Day 108 Birch Love Collage Peanut Butter Sandwich PB n’J Temporality Looking Back Prints Untitled Hamlet 100 Words Line Face Right Conspiracy 20 Tense French Seconds The Blue Shirt Illusion What I Didn’t Do This Summer Irene Scar Jellyfish Boxers Closet A Dance of Kings Toy Soldiers in Love Fire Magically Delicious Ubiquitous Ubiquitous Mask Sunrise Night Trash Collection My City Shower Time The Farm Animals Close 2 Home Faces Questioning my Disbelief Kosher Market Hours Dragonfruit Where Mattress Pads Are a Commodity Hockey Players Are a Rare Breed TV Room Part of Van Gogh’s “Trees in the Garden of the Saint-Paul Hospital” Colorblocked Eleven
Yasi Stein................... Front Cover Shira Stein..................Back Cover Yasi Stein.....................................2 Helen Rudoler.............................4 Ruthie Davis................................4 Yasi Stein.....................................5 Maya Shavit................................6 Sarah Eckstein Indik...................7 Becca Rome................................8 Sarah Eckstein Indik...................8 Hillel Weitzman..........................9 Yasi Stein.....................................9 Sarah Eckstein Indik.................10 Ruthie Davis..............................11 Shirin Kaye...............................12 Yasi Stein...................................13 Max Weinstein..........................13 Sarah Eckstein Indik.................14 Dori Hoffman...........................15 Sarah Eckstein Indik.................15 Lillian Bernstein........................15 Sarah Eckstein Indik.................15 Luke Finkelstein........................16 Ruthie Davis..............................16 Joshua Berkowitz.......................16 Zach Ufberg..............................17 Hillel Weitzman........................18 Yasi Stein...................................19 Allee Hochhauser......................20 Madeleine Rosenthal................20 Amy Bogouslavsky.....................20 Ruthie Cohen............................21 Gefen Galfand...........................21 Allee Hochhauser......................22 Joshua Berkowitz.......................22 Brandon Singer.........................23 Sarah Eckstein Indik.................23 Hillel Weitzman........................24 Ruthie Davis..............................25 Ruby Benjamin.........................25 Ruby Benjamin.........................25 Gefen Galfand...........................26 Yasi Stein...................................26 Shirin Kaye...............................27 Sarah Eckstein Indik.................28 Dori Hoffman...........................28
Gooey Hot Fudge Drizzle on an Even Hotter Summer Day This summer, come to think of it, I didn’t have a really good ice cream sundae. One with chocolate jimmies and gooey hot fudge drizzle and three different flavors of ice cream scoop all nudging each other for space in the little bowl. I didn’t bike to the old ice cream parlor, the kind with arcade games in the back that makes you think of a bad eighties rom-com, on a hot day this summer. And I never sat outside it with my friends and licked the drips of melting ice cream sliding down the side of the bowl like two little snails in a race. I didn’t turn and say “Hey, I’ll give you my maraschino cherry if you promise to owe me a favor,” and didn’t get to smile, knowing that I never liked maraschino cherries in the first place. I did not at any point this summer have the satisfaction of those sticky hands and cheeks; the type you only get from a really good ice cream sundae on a day hot enough to convince you that someone has squished down the world and put it in a big oven. And while they might’ve boarded up that happy, soggy little shop since I’ve been there last, and while it now takes more than a candy cherry to win a favor, there’s something untouchable about remembering, even if I didn’t have a really good ice cream sundae this summer. —Helen Rudoler
108 Birch “My name is Ruthie Davis this is my uh-ddre-ess 108 Birch Avenue, Bala Cynwyd PA 19004.” When I was younger, this was my favorite song. My house was the center of my world. With its unfinished basement, hardwood floors, flowery old wallpaper, bad insulation making it too cold in the winter and lack of air-conditioning making it too hot in the summer, it was never as “cool” as my friends’ houses. It still isn’t. But it’s got a lot going for it. It’s filled to the brim with books: religious texts, Austen and Dickens, P.G. Wodehouse and David Foster Wallace, the collection of Russian literature my mother hangs on to, the vast array of children’s books I insisted on keeping, and everything in between, stuffed onto shelves and overflowing onto the floor, just waiting to be tripped over. It’s full of secret doors and boarded up passageways and history. It’s full of laughter, noise, family, memories, and all those cliches. Still, it’s never the right temperature and all the furniture is uncomfortable, so if my parents ever wanted to move I might let them throw it all out the window. Maybe not, though. —Ruthie Davis
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Yasi Stein
- Yasi Stein
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Peanut Butter Sandwich On the first day of school, at the ripe age of three, the only reason I did not bawl at the sight of my ash colored Cadillac rolling down the greenery of Yardley’s main street was because I was well aware of the treat within my Dora the Explorer sack of glory. Dora was the gatekeeper to my most prized possession, a peanut butter sandwich. Dora and I charged through the entrance of my minuscule Jewish pre-school with excitement to spare. As the day progressed, my ravenous hunger skyrocketed until it was finally everyone’s favorite class: lunch. I opened my bundle of joy, and as my small mouth began to tear off a piece of liquid gold draped with satin curtains, my maniacal teacher seized it from my very hands. My first lunch had become the Last Supper. Despite the superpowers this wonderful snack had gifted me with, I was traitor to my clan of three-year-old peers, and the beacon of hope my mother had so carefully wrapped in cellophane was actually a weapon. My innocent mind failed to comprehend. When I looked at the liquid light within two pale cushions, all I saw was greatness. But my mother was a criminal and a disgrace to the pre-school community because there were several young children diseased with allergies in my grade alone. How I then wailed and blubbered! I did not stop for the remaining half of the day. On that day, I pledged to become the most devout lover of the peanut butter sandwich arts of all time. Peanut butter sandwiches gracefully folded into my existence on a daily basis. Following this traumatic first experience, my icon, Shel Silverstein, danced his way into my young life, the only other being to understand the deep affection I hold for peanut butter sandwiches. My pal Shel sang me to sleep each night, using the voices of my parents, the psalm of the “Peanut-Butter Sandwich” educating me on the honest relationship between a king and his peanut butter sandwich. Now as a young adult, the process of creating a peanut butter sandwich is still a ritual, just as it was for his Majesty. Each day I sojourn into my kitchen pantry and hunt for the beloved ingredients. First, I search for the bread, the foundation of my sandwich. Its pillow-like structure melts in my mouth as I chomp down onto the slices. The slices evoke love, like a warm hug. The white bread with its buttery components and airy texture lightens up the thick, passionate peanut butter. The dough is a vessel that ships the peanut butter into my port of a mouth. In between those beautiful slices of heaven lies a spread so impenetrable and so gooey, that it clings to everything it touches. Peanut butter, the obvious star of the sandwich, has the body of a warrior that attacks with a ferocious agenda. The peanut butter charges into my mouth and causes an uproar of flavor and commotion. It battles gallantly with my molars, making radical attempts to seal my mouth shut for good. Its heroic body bravely barrels through my mouth and down my throat, leaving me with a salty whisper of deliciousness. 6
The peanut butter sandwich has the most distinguished taste of all the food. Its glistening innards adorned with luxurious bread excite the buds of any sane human. Its salty yet slightly sweet flavor leaves me yearning for more with each bite. My palate clenches and drools as I dive deeper and deeper into the food. As I chew, I hear the symphony clang its mighty cymbals. My pearly whites stick together like they are cemented and rip apart only to immediately yearn for another bite of the stimulating design that swims within my gums. The texture of the ravishing dish is extremely complex with a prestigious blend of soft and sticky. The bread of the sandwich carelessly caresses my mouth and easily proceeds to my throat. The ethereal bread balances out the robust and disobedient peanut butter. Peanut butter is chaotic and wild with chunks that capture your tongue and imprison your teeth. The peanut butter sandwich will forever establish itself, a being of two pieces of bread and scrumptious peanut butter, as the supreme overlord of the sandwich kingdom. With its majestic demeanor and comforting appearance, there will never be an absence of peanut butter sandwiches in my life.
Sarah Eckstein Indik
—Maya Shavit
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Temporality I am happy now, but I won’t be later My smile, a vow, to be ripped like paper My thoughts will grace, a mere moment in space quickly displaced, then temporarily replaced My memory is vast, but it soon will stall A life, a past, I’ll no longer recall My mind will grow, til today is ago Leaving only a shadow, of what will be tomorrow. I can dance tonight, but will stumble in time My bones, my might, a brittle design My body will sway, up until it lay, To stay and decay, up until, one day.
Sarah Eckstein Indik
—Becca Rome
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“I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams” —Hamlet (II.ii.273-275) If it weren’t for the video, I would think I could fly. That when I rose up to dunk on my 7.5 foot hoop for the first time, I looked like Lebron, cocking his hand back, and hammering the ball through the iron rim. If it weren’t for the video, I could feel the infinite sea of fans leap to their feet at the sight of my take-off. If I hadn’t decided to film myself, an overweight white preteen, rising just inches off the ground, fettered to the sidewalk by my genetics, I would have felt like the King.
Yasi Stein
—Hillel Weitzman
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Sarah Eckstein Indik
20 Tense French Seconds After two heavy-footed steps up to the line, Valladont stands with his left leg forward and his body angled. He picks an arrow out, holding the bow loosely and swaying just a bit as he sticks the arrow in. Then, just for a moment, he stares off into the distance as if to see the future. The moment ends and he turns his attention back to his bow, lifting it slightly off the ground, arrow at a 30 degree angle facing down. The bow floats an inch in the air as he slips his right index finger over the arrow, curving it over the shaft to hold the arrow steady while his middle and ring fingers take their rightful place underneath. Once his fingers are in place, his body straightens and his movements become more purposeful, controlled, smoother, and more elegant. All at once, he extends his left arm, pulls back his index and middle fingers, and arches the bow upwards like a cat stretching. The bow remains facing the sky for an instant, the arrow staring at the sun for a portion of a second. Then, Valladont lowers the bow, resting its string in the butt of his chin to steady it. Bringing the bow back up, leveling it, the bowstring saws against his chin, displacing his skin ever so slightly. The bowstring crosses his pursed lips and grazes his nose. His thumb rests at the back of his jaw and his pinky pushes against his sternum. For what feels like an eternity, he holds the bow level. That eternity is actually four seconds, and his motionlessness is deceptive. Under the pressure of the tugging bowstring, the blood escapes his knuckles and rushes to his fingertips. A thread of tension runs throughout his body, from his fingers through his bulging forearm to his elbow. In those four seconds, he stands so straight, so strong, so confidently, that it is easy to miss when his fingers start shaking in second three. Finally, everything goes at once: his fingers slide back and his left arm releases, a tiny release that makes all the difference. His right side, from his hand to his elbow, flies back. His hand contorts, wide fingers bending over each other, not yet comfortable with their newfound freedom. They brush against his neck and land at the back of his head. Meanwhile, his left arm is dragged even farther forward, tugged along by the bow chasing the escaped arrow. A few droplets of water or sweat come raining from above with the vibrations of the bow. Eventually, Valladont’s left arm drops and the tension leaves his body as he follows his arrow’s trajectory. After its fateful release, the arrow glides forward piercing the target dead-on. It bounces up and down in increasingly negligible movements. The arrow snuggles in to its rightful place, secure in its home one inch above and to the left of dead center– a perfect 10.
—Ruthie Davis
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The Blue Shirt Beep … beeeeeep … beep-beep! “Shoot! We’ll never arrive in time for that 2:20 appointment with all this blasted bumperto-bumper traffic!” Isaac yelled. “You mean 2:30. Don’t worry, dear. We still have ten minutes.” To distract him, I momentarily took my eyes off the freeway to turn on the radio and check the GPS. “Isaac, that tear. You must let me sew it soon. It degrades the aesthetic of that beautiful shirt.” “Fine. Just focus now. Hurry, we’re going to be late.” He was speaking curtly now. As our children used to say when they were little, Daddy’s getting nervy. This was common behavior ever since we got the news, especially before going to the doctor. I could not however stop noticing the tear, an empty hole in the brilliant blue fabric. The last time he wore that shirt was to his first geriatrics appointment, not too long ago. It all happened so suddenly. I had bought it for his 69th birthday the week before. Driving home from the supermarket, the cool blue fabric mesmerized me when passing the shop window. He opened it that night. “Light blue!” he said. “My favorite color! Looks like the clear sky on a beautiful autumn afternoon.” He repeated that same comparison during our walk the next evening. The palm trees swaying in the breeze never looked so beautiful. “Linda, hurry up! We’re going to be late.” His agitated statement interrupted my thoughts. “Of course, dear.” At his annual appointment with his physician, the doctor recommended that he start seeing a geriatrician. “Somebody who can make sure you age comfortably!” he chuckled. The appointment had finally arrived. My husband has always believed that one should dress his best when meeting someone new and important. That is one thing he never seems to forget. “Faster, Linda!” he said, snapping me back to the present. “Okay, okay. I can’t fly over the traffic!” So we went to the geriatrician. It was a beautiful office building. The receptionist welcomed us warmly and all of the patients in the waiting room looked pleased to be there receiving excellent medical care. Even the room smiled; the walls were blue like the ocean, my husband’s favorite color. Dr. Silton was kind enough. He examined Isaac skillfully, knowledgeably explaining everything he did, while making pleasant small-talk. At the end, his face turned serious and he said, “I am truly sorry to have to tell you some bad news. Mr. Rosendale, you are developing dementia.” Just then I felt a huge loss, a great pain growing inside of me. Like when you realize that you left your favorite jacket on the train and know that you will never get it back. From then on, whenever you reach into the coat closet, you are reminded of it. Dr. Silton spoke on, comforting me and giving me information. I remember none of it. The only reason that I know the material now is because I have 12
religiously read all of the brochures that he gave me, after the initial shock. Naturally, Isaac was also devastated. He was scared to lose his memory, fearful of what the future would hold. We trudged out of the office, through the waiting room with walls the color of tears, sobbing patients, and a bored-looking receptionist. From then on, we had to visit Dr. Silton every couple months to track Isaac’s progress. “Finally!” Isaac sighed loudly. Taking me off of Memory Lane and back to California State Route 60, I noticed that cars were no longer crowding the whole road. Pushing the gas pedal, we zoomed ahead.
Yasi Stein
—Shirin Kaye
—Max Weinstein rabbit hole, there’s no turning back.” I gulped down the anxiety. My elbows and knees were bouncing with anticipation. “Yes.” I felt in my bones how I was perfectly engineered to do this with her. My eyes wouldn’t close; they kept taking in the view. “Here we go.” And we jumped. “Are you ready?” I heard her voice clearly in my ear. “Because once we go down this
What I Didn’t Do This Summer 13
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Sarah Eckstein Indik
there’s a space somewhere between my pointer and thumb where if you look hard enough you can see a scar. it’s from the top button of your jacket that dug into my hand as i grabbed you in a desperate attempt to get you to stay
Sarah Eckstein Indik
you didn’t. your button is fine. your jacket is on. and all i have is a puckered piece of skin. —Dori Hoffman
Two men in a ring Circling around Their fists in a clench Their toes on the ground Around and around The room starts to spin Who will throw first? Which one will give in? He leans in to pounce Teeth ready to bite But he quickly jumps back Too scared of the fight
there’s a drawer in the corner of my room overflowing overflowing with articles of clothing labeled “someday” who scream “try harder!” overflowing with clothing deemed too tight or too small or too revealing for full hips and full belly and full chest and full thighs and full arms overflowing with expectations of what a body should or shouldn’t do or wear
The other grows tired But says nothing aloud He walks out of the ring And gets lost in the crowd
overflowing with wishes of yesterday and tomorrow
—Lillian Bernstein
—Sarah Eckstein Indik
maybe it’s time to clean my closet
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A Dance of Kings The king’s crown waltzed with gold and diamond Power rippled from its light The people bowed in awe as he Flashed ablaze in opaque night A mighty man he seemed to be Grasping scepter in his right Only eyes that pierced the clouds Could gauge the room and see it all If one had looked with candid sight The king, in truth, felt mighty small But one young child knew despite The others thinking he was tall
Ruthie Davis
The king—he did not like the job He felt immodest resting there Upon the dais like a God And sitting on his brazen chair But still, the crowd lined to applaud Their majesty, the debonair People praised the sovereign loudly Compliments and kissed the ring But when the child’s turn arrived He simply looked up at the king And to that child, of age five, The king placed crown and signet ring The child smiled knowingly The king was bare of crown and bling They stood together in the fray As everyone saw everything The child shown a brilliant day And next to him now stood a king
Joshua Berkowitz
—Luke Finkelstein
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Magically Delicious The tinkling sounds of oats and marshmallows hitting the rim of my bowl reminds me of raindrops on my window and gives me a sense of calm amidst the chaos around me. I am a creature of habit. I thrive on routine. I wake up every morning at 6:55 to organize my school supplies while I rub the sleep from my blurry eyes. I head to the bathroom to get ready for the day. Sounds simple, right? Yet every morning my three sisters bring my well-ordered existence down like a house of cards. Sami, the youngest, watches Youtube videos in the living room while doing handstands and cartwheels. Jordie, the middle sister, FaceTimes her friends and Snapchats incessantly. Thankfully, Alexa has her earbuds in, but sings her playlist in a high pitched, scratchy voice like nails on a chalkboard. By the time I sit down for breakfast, my nerves are frazzled and my hair is standing on end, even without product. I reach for the box of Lucky Charms like a drowning man reaches for a life ring. My friend on the box, Lucky the Leprechaun in his silly green outfit, never fails to bring a smile to my face and get me back on track. As I take my first spoonful, I double check to make sure it’s just oats. It’s important to eat the oats first so they don’t get soggy and lose their crunch, especially because the sound drowns out the din around me like a pair of noise-canceling headphones. At the last second, I notice a blue moon marshmallow that snuck into the oat pack on my spoon. I neatly pluck it out and put it back in the bowl with its rainbow of friends. Even though oats are bland compared to the hearts, stars, horseshoes and clovers, they contain the vitamins and nutrients that are so important for a healthy breakfast. Besides, it gives me a real sense of purpose to look down and see a bowl full of marshmallows that I can organize into groups. While I let the sugary charms flavor the milk, I herd them into their respective quadrants. I love to satisfy my mathematical appetite by making sure that each marshmallow type is represented equally. Just this morning there were three extra red balloons and one extra green clover. These go down the hatch first. Then, I methodically scoop one of each type of marshmallow into a spoonful. I let the sugary sweetness dissolve on my tongue like cotton candy at the circus when I was a kid, though I’m too old for the circus now. Sometimes, I close my eyes and attempt to taste the difference between the various marshmallows. I bat about 50%, but I know I can bring my average up. I think this challenge keeps some mystery in our relationship. With mixed emotions I look down into my bowl of blue and purple milk devoid of cereal. I feel a pang of remorse that my friend, the leprechaun, will soon take his place back in the pantry. His bright blue eyes seem to be saying, “Eat another bowl, Zach!” But, everyone knows that I am a one-bowl-for-breakfast kind of guy. It just doesn’t fit into my schedule. Still, l smile as I slurp down the delicious elixir that is left. The milk is cold and refreshing and its 17
sweetness makes it the perfect end of my morning routine. Memories of those last swallows linger with me throughout the day. Eating Lucky Charms may seem incongruous with my personality. My parents and teachers constantly tell me I’m an old soul; that I should loosen up and be a kid. I know it gives my parents a sense of comfort to see the Lucky Leprechaun on the counter each morning. They take pleasure thinking that underneath my calculated and considered exterior there is still a spark of their carefree boy. I would never disavow them of their notion, but they’re wrong. To me, Lucky Charms is the perfectly logical breakfast choice. It clears my head from the family chaos, satisfies my mathematical mind, and provides the routine on which I thrive. The way Lucky Charms keeps my world in order is “magically delicious.” —Zach Ufberg
Ubiquitous Ubiquitous Ubiquitous I love the word “ubiquitous.” I actually first heard the word in the lyric of a rap song that goes “But now I’m ‘bout to be ubiquitous, look it up.” Following the instructions of the rap artist, I looked up the definition of ubiquitous, and, intrigued by the result, soon began to incorporate it into my own daily vocabulary. A few weeks into my use (and probably overuse) of the word, I began to realize that nobody really knew what ubiquitous meant. Every time I said the word, either I was asked its definition, or it seemed like whatever point I was making went right over the heads of the people listening. After this realization I decided that if nobody understands what ubiquitous means, I could use it in place of any adjective when talking to people. So for example instead of saying “Yeah, that guy’s insane,” I would say, “Yeah, that guy’s ubiquitous,” or just respond to things by saying “That’s ubiquitous!” and nobody knew what it meant, yet nobody would question me. What was the point of doing this? It was somewhere in between me just wanting to sound smarter, and me wanting to feel out how smart whoever I was talking to was—as if knowing the word “ubiquitous” is an accurate measure of intellectual ability. But regardless, for a few solid months I would use the word 5-10 times every day, completely incorrectly, with no shame whatsoever. Inevitably, this little experiment came to an end when my classmates finally decided to look up the definition. Even now, though, I live with the satisfaction that I had made the word “ubiquitous” ubiquitous. —Hillel Weitzman
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Yasi Stein
Sunrise
Night
Knife pierces the velvet blue
Hundreds of specks
A yellow yolk leaks through the gap
Gleaming against the black sky
Running across hills, poking everything it sees
Comfort in the dark night So close
Boldness strewn across a heaven
Yet so far
Pureness one cannot retain
Unfathomable
The shades are drawn open by dawn’s nimble fingers
Yet reliable No matter what
Pushing away sleep
They’ll greet you
Concealing stationary little lights
Tomorrow
Darkness surrenders to day
—Madeleine Rosenthal
Amy Bogouslavsky
—Allee Hochhauser
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Ruthie Cohen
Shower Time It’s shower time. It’s the most wonderful part of the day. I’m turning on the water, selecting my playlist, stripping off my clothes, unconsciously grooving and getting into my mood. Of course the closet door isn’t closed, it’s never quite closed, always a crack open, and honestly the last thing I need is some axe murderer attacking me in my sacred space while I’m mid-condition. Damn, the water’s really hot, excuse me while my skin melts off my body. I turn the temperature down a bit, knowing full well I’m going to bump it back up two songs in. Honestly Easy (Like Sunday Morning) gets me feeling some type of way. A good way. Good song. Should I play this for my entire shower? I poke my head out of the curtain, contemplating it. Nope. WAY too cold out there. I wet my hair and grab some shampoo, I shampoo with my head upside down, the water always trickles into my nose so I always have to remember to breathe out of my mouth, lest I die. I’m trying to wash it out, God I have so much hair. Sometimes I think about just cutting it all off, but then I think about how thick it is and how it’s pretty wavy so I crush that idea because I’m not going to willingly self-sabotage. I put a mini cupcake sized amount of conditioner in my hand, flip my head upside down and start combing it through my hair. I’m kind of hungry, probably eating dinner after this, I hope I’m eating dinner after this. I wonder what’s for dinner. I love a good pesto with pasta. Or burgers. With sweet potato fries. Or wings. I hope it’s wings. Wait. Maybe hoagies. I grab my loofa and my body wash. Smells so good. I do my torso first then go waist down. Showering is so therapeutic. I like in the summer when you’re washing your legs and feet and they’re visibly dirty, it sounds gross but I feel like it means you had a great day. A busy exciting adventurous day. Being outside with your friends. I miss summer. I wash off my body then I wash my conditioner out. Damn my hair is so soft, never ceases to impress me. What did people do before conditioner? Have dry hair I’ll bet. Sucks. Time to brave the cold. I get out and wrap myself up in my massive robe. I put on my turbey-twist, wipe down the mirror and turn on the fan. I hope it’s wings. —Gefen Galfand 21
The Farm A neat, cozy, farmhouse stands before a gated field of green and yellow. White cattle dot the vast field. Yellow daisies and a colorful array of wildflowers stretch towards the sky opening themselves to the sun. Next to the house stands a large portico which houses a timeless Chevrolet truck and a tangerine tractor. The front porch of the home proudly displays a large, metal lone star that hangs on the siding. The red, white, and blue colors of Texas are boldly strewn across it and the authentic star stands out amongst the warmth of the home. A wooden, swinging bench faces the dirt road and driveway, accompanying the lone star on the front porch. It sways back and forth as the warm breeze inhales and exhales. A few cars and pickup trucks are stationed in the driveway. Muddy boots lay out on the porch from an eventful day and damp clothes hang over the limp clothesline in exhaustion. The farm smells of strong pine with an undercurrent of cow manure and daisies, but the smell fades away as days pass. The house is old but comforting, and the clean air is a refreshing getaway for lungs. The wooden front door is left open as the screen door stays shut, allowing in a pleasant breeze and the chirping of crickets. A new TV, displaying Dailey and Vincent at the Grand Ole Opry, stands in the front room accompanied by a plush brown couch facing it and two wooden rockers on either side. Framed photographs hang on the textured walls of every room, photos of deer spotted out back in the forest of pine trees a man planted in his youth. Sounds of laughter, teasing, and thick Southern accents come from the small kitchen and fill every room with a sense of home. Camouflage clothes and rifles hibernate in a few closets and the dogs chase each other up and down the hallway. The back of the farmhouse stands looking out to the west at the neatly mowed lawn. The wild field grows beyond the yard, separated by the electric fence that prevents the cattle from intruding. A hammock hangs lazily from an oak tree next to the house. When the sun sets in the evening, behind the forest of pine trees, the sky is set ablaze. It is painted with the vibrant shades of pinks, oranges, yellows, and purples as the hot sun slowly recedes behind the trees. At night, dry lightning storms illuminate the sky. When these occur, the man sits outside on the back porch, watching the light show in comfortable silence. His family keeps him company. Sometimes all anyone needs are unspoken words for they can express more than thousands.
Joshua Berkowitz
—Allee Hochhauser
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close 2 home you remind me of someone maybe a little bit of too many people boys whose dimples locked the doors to a house i could never enter girls whose smiles begged to be nothing but space, anything but basement during house party, or bathroom during 6th period someone whose tremor attempted to inform me that they were trying to grasp onto my love splattered onto my bare chest, as though my friendship was akin to Wednesday’s lunch doused on my t-shirt a lover so temporary, their laugh was a memory i was currently living in a mother, burdened by battle scars and war cries, echoing in her mind throughout the past 15+ years a touch, already imprinted on my skin before the hug has reached the 4.5 second maximum-mark could the idea that someone loves you. like, you you, hurt you that much? could i hurt you that much? could i, truly, genuinely, hurt you that much? could i love you anyway? cause i need it.
Sarah Eckstein Indik
—Brandon Singer
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Questioning my Disbelief The man standing next to me handed me two paper towels. “What’s this for?” I asked him. “For your knees,” he replied in a thick Israeli accent. I looked down at my knees—nothing out of the ordinary, but nothing about the situation was ordinary, so it was hard to tell. I was standing in a crowd of men, all of them bearded, all of them in long white robes and prayer shawls. Forty or so men I had never met before stood in a tight knot around me and my friends, singing and chanting prayers that were only faintly familiar because of the cadence of their words. I had been to Yom Kippur services before, but never in a place like this. The open windows invited the scent of the Jerusalem eucalyptus trees and the sound of birds singing into the room with us. I held the paper towels in confusion as my eyes searched the room for my friends. Suddenly, the crowd separating me from my classmates fell to the ground in unison. All the men who had been standing were now crouched down on the ground, cushioning their knees with folded paper towels as they touched their foreheads to the floor. My friends and I dropped to join them on the ground. The room was then filled with cries, shouts, and whispers, each man’s voice distinct from every other. “What is happening?” I whispered to my friend on his elbows and knees next to me. He didn’t know either. We were a month into Muss. Up to this point I had been through eight years of Jewish day school, about a thousand trips to synagogue, and countless discussions with my Rabbi mom and Jewish-Studies-professor dad about what Judaism was, and how it was supposed to affect me. Not once did I leave school feeling a stronger connection with God or open a prayer book because I believed in the power of prayer. For my whole childhood, I had waited outside the sanctuary during services, not even giving myself the chance to find meaning. I was always fascinated by others’ relationships with God on an academic level, but had no spiritual yearnings of my own. And then it was Yom Kippur in Jerusalem. As the morning service continued, the love and passion in the voices around me began to chip away at the wall of disbelief I had built years ago. There was a contagious wholeheartedness, gratitude, and yearning in their hymns that penetrated so deeply, it stayed with me through the next two months of the program. I was in the holiest place on Earth, and I was evolving to care about it. For the rest of the semester I sought out experiences that would open me to things I couldn’t already understand. When I returned home, I resolved to assimilate this new-found openness and vulnerability into my everyday life. Yet, within days of my return, the connection was gone. The wall that had been broken down by the voices in that synagogue had been mended: prayer stood 24
on one side, and I stood on the other. Whatever connection had been forming suddenly dissolved into routine and I lost the passion that was building within. But I have held onto the idea that a single moment, however brief, could change me. I’m still seeking experiences that will break down walls, momentary epiphanies that shake something within me. I’m not looking for experiences that will validate my political views, belief system, or outlook on life, but for moments that challenge them. I not only want to understand the beliefs of the person sitting next to me, but learn how the person sitting next to me understands my beliefs. It is only by moving beyond the limits of myself that I will become the person I want to be.
Ruthie Davis
Ruby Benjamin
—Hillel Weitzman
Where Mattress Pads Are a Commodity The familiar scent of plywood is the pure perfume of joy, emanating through the grafitti-covered walls. Though paper thin, they shelter last year’s secrets and high-pitched giggles. New memories, eager to join those of summers past, are born out of busy gab. Yet, heat becomes unbearable as the noise level rises. Sweat accumulates on the chipping paint of the gray floors. Enormous duffel bags are slung onto bare metal bunk-bed frames that abhor those who have not felt the embrace of their delightful grime. Amidst excited chatter, the orchestra of fans whirring sinks into the background. Hours pass, the windowblinds fall, and the mattresses are adorned with lavish egg-crates. Smells of individual houses are long gone. What remains is only that unwaveringly distinct aura of pine. —Ruby Benjamin 25
Hockey Players Are Another Breed He watches as his teammate recovers the puck, and as they near in proximity he pushes off his back skate, propelling himself forward. There he is, number 63, gliding across the ice beneath him as if he was born on that very rink. As he skates forward he moves the puck side to side with his stick, controlled. He guides the puck as if he’s a conductor, and the puck is his orchestra. He maneuvers his feet quickly, each stepping over the other with unexpected gracefulness, while simultaneously moving forward. As he travels down the right sidebar of the rink, he begins to curve inwards toward the goal, number 71 from the opposite team coming up on his left. He explodes with speed, the goalie comes out of the net while 71 comes up close to his shoulder, he’s sandwiched between the two, forcing himself forward through their sticks. 71 stretches his leg out in an attempt to disrupt 63’s powerful stride. 63 nimbly lifts his legs in unison, the puck only inches in front of him, and he launches himself over 71’s leg and over the goalie’s body. He lands on one leg, his right leg, and while his left leg is coming down from the air he shoots the puck under him, barely seeing the goal. His body falls forward as he shoots, the momentum catching up with is feet and he falls to the ice as the puck leaves his stick. It’s too quick for the goalie to even compute what just happened. The goalie turns slowly and watches the puck whizz past his body, arching into the net.
Yasi Stein
—Gefen Galfand
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Shirin Kaye
when i was eleven i always imagined being eighteen. now i’m eighteen. and all i can think about is how i wish i could just be eleven. -Dori Hoffman
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