JMA's profile

Tear the right sleeve of the black blouse and confront death head-on. Recite El Malei Rachamim when the casket, that beautiful casket, is lowered into the ground. Shovel dirt into the grave, despite disapproving glances, and be careful to use the back of the tool to indicate reluctance. Return home, alone, to the bowl of water with a cup. Pour water over each hand three times to “dispel the spirits of uncleanness” and light the Shiva candle. Eat the se’udat havra’ah, the meal of condolence, p...

I do not remember the face of my mother anymore than I remember the arid plateaus of Ethiopia. There are images of both, I’m sure, floating around somewhere in my mind, just waiting to be plucked down and examined. Mama Kline tells me not to be ridiculous, that of course I can’t remember, being just under six months old when God, in His infinite mercy and wisdom, decided to deliver me from a heathen’s death in Africa. Mama Kline talks like this a lot. Not as much as Papa Kline, who, red-faced...

There is a moment, standing in the hallway, when she almost gives in to her body's demand to collapse. Her head aches with a constancy she'd never thought possible and she's still wearing yesterday's wrinkled clothes, clothes that smell to Ellie like despair and regret, but is really the ointment she has been applying to her mother's bedsores. Weariness creeps along her spine with startling tenacity, growing stronger with every report she makes to the men in the kitchen, and in that instant, ...

Imagine yourself stumbling into the foyer of your modest three-bedroom home, water dripping onto the floor from your ice-blue satin Valentino gown, a gift from the designer. No, not a gift, because you must return it tomorrow afternoon and you don’t know how you’re going to explain being pushed off the diving board of your executive producer’s pool at 4 a.m. You think that’s a headache for the morning and you choose instead to pour yourself a drink from the bar in your living room. The sound ...

Of all the people perched in the box in front of the window, you think juror number five is the most sympathetic. Her pale face is scrubbed so clean she’s almost glowing and her thin blonde hair escapes in wisps from her ponytail. You would kill for hair like that, so fine and shiny, like running you hands through silk. Her dresses are flower-print, down to her ankles, her shoes sturdy and practical. You imagine her growing up in a religious household, a quiet mother, a domineering father, si...