Today in the taxi my passenger was crying into her phone. She’d just had a miscarriage.
Who was she talking to? Her mother, perhaps. She hoped there was an invisible hand
that had some purpose in her tragedy.

I pictured the Lord and Her shelf of jars and vapors, Her amino acids and carbons, fit
together with one black wheel and one white wheel.

Every Sabbath the rabbi would remove the slip of paper with Her Name on it from the
Golem’s mouth, and it would become lifeless, nothing but a thimbleful of little clay cells.