“My father always used to say to throw your questions to the sea and the answers would wash up on the shore.”
“Did they?”
“No, not in Brighton Beach.”

I’d like, for one day, to hop in a time machine to 1930s Brooklyn.  To see the stitching of the baseball gloves that look so cumbersome, to feel the texture of the radio knobs as I tuned them to the evening news, to try on an immaculately constructed dress made from fabric like gauze, to understand what fifteen cents could buy me at the Jewish market and to know the name of the man who sells it to me.  And I’d walk down to the water and I’d smell the breeze off of the beach, and all of a sudden, nothing would be so curious any more.