From Her Notes

My last Sabbath, I follow the girls, who sneak into the wedding tent, scattered with sun flower seeds and remnants of celebration. They each stand up on a table. Take a crushed beer can as a microphone, sing and move their fifteen-year-old hips. I watch, clap for them, until a small face peers in the door. A boy. His face white with something. The door slamming, his very small fist holding it shut, having found what was inside wrong. Enough, I tell him; enough! He leaves. The girls dance again, but less bold. Look: the boy has come back, is looking you hard in the eye, through the crack of the door. There, in his hand, a neon plastic BB gun. He does this for his grandmother and for his son.