we’re driving through Northern California headed to the Purim spiel and it’s almost spring. The way spring marches into California makes everything look stupidly beautiful. I’m reading this book called SoundMachine and your sister calls from the east to ask which brand of toilet paper to buy during quarantine. In fact I can’t remember exactly what she is asking because I am too busy trying not to meddle in anyone’s business. Stand 5 or 6 feet away, they say, no shaking hands or hugging. When you get off the phone you say something like you can’t believe we’ve only known each other for 3 or 4 months, you say I feel like I’ve known you longer. I don’t respond, not necessarily because I don’t agree but because all the times I’ve thought something similar have led to a serious form of heartbreak. So I nod and play dumb until we park on top of the synagogue hill with the sun setting pink against the gold mountains and you turn to gaze at me from the driver’s seat and I see something that makes sense again
Kayla Schneider-Smith is a 2nd year Poetry student