Gail Newman April 4, 2022 in bed before dawn, stars lashed to heaven’s Huppah, blessing the world, but she, no bride, one hundred years and more under her belt, dreaming through creak of soles, soft tread of boy, hard step of father as he smuggles a knife, coils rope in his pockets, conceals intent under heavy wrap, opens the flap of the tent and with the stealth of a thief, steps outside. Had Sarah known, would she have stood staunch, a barricade between them— God, father, and boy?
