Is This the Girl I Carried?
My mother used to sing, in a scattershot way (she forgot entire lines and stitched the holes together by humming and mumbling), songs from Fiddler on the Roof. I grew up listening to her, in her low alto like a man’s baritone, declaiming, “If I were a rich man…,” arms akimbo, kick-stepping like she was leading a line dance at some bar mitzvah. And I can still see her moving about the house in sweeping motions, crooning, “match-maker, match maker make me a match, find me a fin