sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating the subtle nuances.
she was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum…

are you sad, yankel?

she asked one morning over breakfast.

of course,

he said, feeding melon slices into her mouth with a shaking spoon.


because you were eating then, instead of talking, and I become sad when I don’t hear your voice.

when you watch people dance, does that make you sad?

of course.

it also makes me sad. why do you think it does that?

he kissed her on the forehead, put his hand under her chin. you really must eat, he said, it’s getting late.