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August, one year later
“If his word were a bridge, I’d be afraid to cross.” Or as my bubbe, my mother’s mother might have said, in Yiddish rather than English, “Oyb zayn vort volt gedint als brik volt men moyre gehat aribertsugeyn.”
Trust me; it’s runnier in Yiddish. I know. I also know that Yiddish is the voice of exile, the tongue of ghettos, but, believe me, I’ll shed a tear when it joins ancient Greek and dead Latin. For gossip and insult, you can’t beat Yiddish.
I imagined that shaky bridge the entire time I was talking on