Kohlrabi Salad
KJ Hannah Greenberg
Tapas Winner








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 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 our bathtub.

Usually, I’d respond by unloading the dishwasher, feeding the cats, or hurrying off to start my commute.

The marriage counselor suggested a vacation. “Nature,” he enthused. 

So, we reserved space near Agmon HaHula, where large, long-necked birds brooded.

“You don’t love me enough,” you sobbed over food pushed around your plate, but not eaten. “You’re an idiot,” you finally lashed out as we were packing our bags to return to the city.

“I could have been more sensitive,” I whispered to the car’s boot as I lifted one suitcase in after another. 

“I hope the pictures turn out well. We were fortunate to see the warblers,” though, is what I said to you.


First published: February 2018
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