My sister, Mercy and her husband, Joshua own a beauty salon called B@M, whose acronym is the antithesis of another ineffable ritual:
At each sunrise, purple, white and black bath towels are strewn all over the dining room table with a mahogany pavilion carved at the heart, manufactured in China, Pakistan and India, respectively. While B'nei Yisra'el sleeps in on Saturday morning, Mom folds laundry into battalion banners, the shape of Dad's stroke-imbued mouth, balancing mantle after mantle upon Asian carp. He supervises from an orange-cushioned seat, beside the stairway. K'ruvim glisten below their razor gaze, and as we get a head start On the Silk Road to everywhere, but Yerushalayim, your dreams are bestirred by the aroma of Olive Oil tombs, opining.
