Orli Sofer sped by on her scooter. She gripped its red handles. She traveled to work sooner than expected. Her thighs jiggled as she pedaled. People giggled. They loved to meddle. Sunday in the suburbs spelled sunshine. Frolickers filled the sidewalks. Truly, in nature you could find peace of mind if you listened as opposed to talk. Birds chirped. Flowers bloomed. Pollen was kryptonite for the allergic. Fortunately, Orli’s immune system was not sensitive to a change of seasons. Spring ensued. Her freedom from illness—an invincible shield.
Orli arrived at the library early. Her shift started in an hour. Her co-workers were prone to sneezing due to dust. Their wild medicinal concoctions proved less effective over time. Everyone builds tolerance to something. Orli’s condition involved selective hearing. She tolerated insults. Her thick skin invited insidious remarks as sharp as weapons.
“Oh woman who does not live on bread alone,” someone greeted Orli.
“Are you trying to say that I’m fat?” Orli opined. Her many curves quickly became a subject of discussion.
“How far along are you?” another stranger at work inveighed at Orli.
“I’m not pregnant,” she replied in stride. “Although I want nothing more than to be a mother.” Orli considered every word as a blessing, not mere condescension. She sat humbly digesting the newspaper—the editorial section. Then, she heated things up with a banned book, once engulfed in flames of hate. It had found a home in her soul, made of a substance worth more than gold.
If you could get pregnant from reading books, Orli would be a mother of three by now. She loved three authors enough to have their children—Nicky Silver, a playwright; Yann Martel, a novelist; Shel Silverstein, a children’s book writer. These authors deserved her youth. She surrendered to their beautiful writing. Their understanding of history made room for her—a woman with her clothes on.
Yes, there was Borges and Neruda—even Marquez, but their magical realism and love poetry produced profound thinking, very rarely laughter. And Orli loved to laugh. How much less messy to give birth through turning pages than from fumbling in the dark in bedsheets wrestling with God. A child born of a literary union would be intensely gifted. If a child spoke at birth, ready to edit his speech, how much easier to raise this child than to watch him crawl at your feet—crying.
This Mother’s Day, remember the Orli’s of the world. The invisible women who take up too much space (i.e., the elephant in the room). The majestic women who know how to move. The introspective women who make time for the written word. This Mother’s Day, awaken your imagination. Consider developing immunity to disparaging comments, which are stepping stones, not stumbling blocks. There is more than one way to mother, to nurture, to nourish. Feed your soul. You are born with the possibility of becoming a mother. Give birth. To new characters, perspectives, and looks. Life starts and ends in a book.
Yerusalem Work
Yerusalem Work again shows her mastery of using language, imagery, personifications, and metaphors to communicate a positive message for life and as meaning during this Mother’s Day weekend. She demonstrates mastery in her creatively expressive use of words and the revelation of wisdom from her vast readings of diverse literature. I believe you have to read to write; that you cannot write from a vacuum or limited worldview. Moreover and seemingly, being born with a thirst for knowledge and receiving training in library science, endears Ms. Work to books and reading.