Maree Makom

Now
And then, one moment, the picture stops breathing. The soundtrack is already fused with the
noise of the place, and the life it holds suddenly flattens and halts. From a distance of years
the Hebrew that accompanies the sights, whispering beneath them, recedes now or breaks in a
shriek. And the memory which is attempting to haul up an echo, drops down like a leaf in a New
York red autumn wind, slightly this way, and slightly that way, swinging, falling, and is finally
trampled under the indifferent heel of a new moment rushing—shoving and being shoved—in.