Then the winds grew gentle, blowing the clouds away and bringing the clean bright days of Passover and spring. Before she would have dreamt it possible, the golden summer had come and vanished and preparations began again for Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Succoth. The year had come full cycle, she thought, and was back to the beginning again. Nothing changed. The sun went up, it came down. The pots were washed, then filled again with food and washed again. Clothes were laundered, then worn, dirtied, and washed again. Only in Akiva did she see the beauty and wonder of growth and change. He had grown so much, his fat baby feet and hands thinning out slightly, turning him into a little man. He was a wild, happy child. He could pass no ball without throwing it up into the sky. He could see nothing with screws and bolts without longing to take it apart. His curiosity was insatiable and with him Batsheva rediscovered the world. The hours they spent alone together or with Gita, hiking up through the hills, picnicking in the grass, were the only happiness she had.
