Good Thing There Aren’t any Children in this Story
Published in Issue #26 Translated from Hebrew by Yaron Regev subscribe to unlock the full storyOne day Honi was journeying on the road and he saw a man planting a carob tree. He asked, “How long does it take [for this tree] to bear fruit?”
– Taanit 23a:14, Babylonian Talmud
“Soon it will no longer be possible,” says Dr. Peles, her bespectacled eyes piercing.
“You realize that, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” I nod knowingly.
“One can’t wait forever,” says my mother, handing me a women’s magazine bursting with suggestions: in vitro fertilization, donor selection, adoption, surrogacy, pumping…
“Mother! Enough!” I scream at her. “Enough already. I’m sick to death of your nagging. Believe it or not, I know how it’s done. Brush in tube, dick in cunt and all that.”
“But why?” She plays stupid, momentarily dropping the rag from her hand as she takes in all of my five feet eight inches – wood sandals, purple velvet skirt, black singlet covering a really flat chest with a large black sweater carelessly thrown on top, and all that joyful mess topped by a swirl of red hair surrounding an over-roundish face.
“But why?” she says again.
“Just because, mom. Because I’m sick of it. Because maybe I don’t even want it. Did you ever stop to consider that?”
“Listen, Mickey, dear, by the time you’ve finished thinking, it will already be too late, and I’m already too…”
“All right, mom, end of discussion. Yalla, I’m off.”
And I’m off, with my mother behind me, waddling in her slippers to the end of the path, waving goodbye from there as if we are parting for all eternity. I merely leave her little house...
Subscribe now to keep reading
Please enter your email to log in or create a new account.