This piece is part of our Witnessing series, which shares pieces from Israeli authors and authors in Israel, as well as the experiences of Jewish writers around the globe in the aftermath of October 7th.
It is critical to understand history not just through the books that will be written later, but also through the first-hand testimonies and real-time accounting of events as they occur. At Jewish Book Council, we understand the value of these written testimonials and of sharing these individual experiences. It’s more important now than ever to give space to these voices and narratives.
In collaboration with the Jewish Book Council, JBI is recording these pieces to increase the accessibility of these accounts for individuals who are blind, have low vision or are print disabled.
In Borrowed Clothes
I hadn’t packed for picking grapefruit
in the rain, nor for harvesting anything
at all. I’d only flown across the sea
to hold my son and know with
my own eyes that he was whole.
The land at-arms, the workers gone,
the farmer called for backup hands
to save his fruit from wilting into one
more tale of wartime sorrow. Meanwhile,
I found picking clothes to borrow.
Twist, don’t yank the fruit, he said,
as we pulled on gloves and slung
his gathering bags across our chests,
spilling the heft of harvest into bins
like children cleaning up their toys.
The rain came then, running down
my dirt-smudged face, drenching the
front of a skirt too large and a shirt
too small, though I cannot recall when
I have ever felt so pure or lovely.
Before our break, the farmer yelled,
Mazal Tov! You’ve emptied half my trees,
while our luck lay in the truths of
picking and the citrus scent in the air
and the Jewish soil beneath our feet.
I sent my tree-tall child a photo of my
arms, filled like a bowl with yellow fruit.
Love grows in many ways, I thought
to write, but left the words to wither
on the thorny, rain-soaked boughs.
In the orchard, I heard the raindrops
echo like a whispered poem on verdant
leaves. With greed, I borrowed the lines
and left them with my son. Only the
memory flew back across the sea with me.
The views and opinions expressed above are those of the author, based on their observations and experiences.
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Merri Ukraincik is an award-winning writer whose personal essays, articles, and poems have appeared in Tablet, The Lehrhaus, The Jewish Week, and other publications. She is the author of the coffee table book I Live: Send Help, about the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee. You can follow her writing and other adventures via her Substack, Days of Rest, or on Facebook.
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