Chana Perman

She tried to chalk it up to a lesson in humility—one she was certain to remember. Occasionally, a twinge in the heart would remind: but . . . had she not once been a born teacher?

Poetry

At times, sharing opportunities may appear at our doorstep, neatly wrapped with a shining bow. At other times, the gift is hurled through an open window, perhaps during a thunderstorm at 3:00 AM. Perhaps when we least expected or wanted it...

She has a sign on her wall, much like The Writing on Wall saying (as she’s praying): This too shall pass

Who in their right mind would opt for the toddler upgrade? I wonder aloud. To which the travel agent smugly replies: Do you have a child under the age of two and a half? I answer affirmatively. Then (aha!) you already have opted for the Toddler Upgrade . ...

I need to throw out more stuff. Tug of heartstrings. What if my children want to see my doodles from Grade Eight? More importantly, what if I want to see their doodles from age two? There are no easy answers...

This cloud I sense does not speak, it only weeps. This cloud is enormous and has been shedding every Jewish tear from the beginning of time . . .

Being as I don’t want to be assigned to the loony bin, my shout is carefully manufactured—existing in dimensions no greater than two feet long and two feet wide. The Carefully Manufactured Shout is tied with twine—and, by most metaphysical classifications...

i might drag my feet for a minute -- or month because these things are big, you know and who can say what crossing over feels or looks like

Tell me. Who are you on the playground?