For Rosh Hashana, my mother took me and my father to her sister. We had a celebratory dinner with a honey cake for desert to make the upcoming year sweet, and my uncle spoke against God and religion, a habit he developed for holiday dinners. The three of us stayed there for two days. I called the neighborhood kids to join me in my circus training, while my parents had grapes or cake on the verandah with relatives.
No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.