Kohlrabi Salad
THE KOHLRABI SALAD lasted for days. It sat, alongside the hummus and the tahini, in the small, Airbnb refrigerator of the room we rented in the South Galilee. Ostensibly, we had relocated to watch the passage of the cranes. Actually, we had driven north to mourn your latest miscarriage.
I reached my arm across the sheets toward you, but you flinched. Unlike our neighbor, Tamara, your losses didn’t end with hemorrhages.
Unlike the wife of a guy on my research team, you were told, repeatedly, to try again. Yet, your grief, like the acres of farmland, which is annually fouled by migrators, was both defended and exposed.
“Acknowledge me!” you’d shout from our bedroom or our balcony. “It’s dreams and hopes, lifetimes and futures,” you’d scream from our sofa or from our bathtu
