Free The Mystics of Mile End by Sigal Samuel

in the river, grabbed her ankle, and kissed it. And ah, that was it, it was all over for her. She stood. He gave her a kiss, a small kiss, right in the corner of her mouth. She gave him a kiss, a small kiss, right in the corner of his mouth. He pressed his finger to her lips. She pressed her finger to his. Sha, he told her without words. Quiet, be quiet, listen.
    â€œWas it then that it happened, Lev? So fast, just like that? Or did it take her many more lessons, days, maybe, or weeks, to hear what the fish were saying? And the birds and the flowers and the trees and the sunlight and the wind? His secret language, his silent laugh?”
    I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again.
    â€œAh, how she loved him. He did not have anymore to write his stories for her—he could speak them to her now, in his own way, and she would hear him. How happy they were in their two-person world! How much taller they were than the rest of the village! All the poor people going about their little businesses, using pathetic spoken words—how sad and silly they all were! Didn’t they see thatthe language of silence was the most beautiful, most precise language of all? The only language that did not need to be invented by humans—the language that was actually spoken by God? And the voice of the Lord was walking in the garden . . . They did not see. And ah, how she pitied them. Because the tiny footfalls of silence, its tiny levers and pedals, you could feel them pressing on your skin if you learned how to open yourself to their music . . .”
    I sat up a bit straighter. So that was it! The “voice of the Lord” was the silence all around you, and if you listened carefully enough, you could feel it “walking” all over you . . .
    Mr. Glassman cleared his throat. “That was the happiest summer of her life. That summer of pity and music.” He sighed. “But her brother, his stories were sad. And she did not like this. She wanted he should be happy, she wanted he should make pretty things! ‘Make the world pretty,’ she begged him. So, for her, he tried. For a few weeks he told happy stories. Talking animals—giraffes, lions, birds—that sort of thing. But these stories were all failures. They did not tell the truth, and she, already, at ten years old, could feel that these stories were lies. ‘Make true things,’ she told him. She gave her permission and in return he gave his most beautiful, serious smile. And then, at the end of that summer, he told her another story. Ah, but what a story! The Kadosh Baruch Hu should guard us from such stories as that . . .”
    The kitchen was now weirdly quiet. The only sound was the water rushing into the sink. But Mrs. Glassman wasn’t rinsing dishes anymore. I didn’t know how long she’d just been standing there, with her mouth hanging open like she’d had the breath knocked out of her. I watched her stay still a few seconds longer. Then, even though there were still dirty dishes left and even though the water was running over them and even though her hands were dripping wet, she turned away and walked out of the kitchen and slowly, maybe painfully, climbed the stairs.
    Mr. Glassman let out a deep sigh. Seconds slipped by. Outside the window, a bird flew across the sky and cawed. Finally, he said, “I have kept you too long, you will come back another time and I will tell you Yankel’s story, yes?” I said, “Yes, sure,” and then I added, “Thanks for the lesson, Mr. Glassman!” before racing out the door into the fresh night air, which I gulped down into my lungs like a person who’s just been rescued from a shipwreck, and then I ran down the sidewalk and up the path to my house and turned my key in the lock.
    H alfway through the dark hallway, I heard voices in the kitchen. Sammy was talking to someone and I was sure it must be Dad, but then I saw Alex and remembered that