I am gripping my chest as my colleague attempts to reassure me. “The paramedics will be here soon,” she says.

I remember a time when all I wanted to be was Trash.

I drove with no GPS. After what happened, getting lost seemed like a good idea.

In the Soviet Russia of the 1980s, my mom chose not to tell me we were Jewish.

People who claim spaces as sacred are usually referring to mountains covered in snow-dusted firs or ocean waters that received them in their brokenness and led them back to their unshattered selves.

Most of the time I can avoid looking at my left breast — or whatever it’s called now — but when I do, I see the little red capillaries above and below the seven-inch scar snaking from my sternum up into my armpit.

He calls you makhtesh, a word he tells you means the expanse of the universe.