Chapter One

Chapter 1: A Spark Ignites

The Early Years...

Miriam Viona Cohen was born to Nina Junia Morris and Samuel Phineas Cohen on June 2, 1990, in Brooklyn, New York. Her parents were raised in households that understood their worth and place in the world. Nina, Miriam’s mother, was the daughter of their community's synagogue leader. At the same time, Sam, Miriam’s father, was the son of the synagogue's Hebrew School teacher and a history teacher in one of the public schools in the city. As children, her parents knew nothing different than how they were raised, and it was almost expected that Sam would court Nina, marry her at eighteen, and start a family. For the most part, that’s exactly how their fairytale love story unfolded.

Except for one crucial difference: Sam ended up dating, marrying, and leaving Brooklyn. Nina ran away from home, but tragedy eventually brought her back. She received word that her beloved father had died, and as the eldest of six children, she was told to come home. She and her mother, Miriam’s grandmother, never got along well; it was precisely because of her that Nina had run away. Nina swore that if she ever had a child—specifically a daughter—she would be a different kind of mother, especially compared to how she thought a Jewish mother was expected to relate to her daughter. If anyone ever asked Miriam what she loved most about her mother, it would be, “She was nothing like my Bubbe.”

At this time, Sam had gotten a divorce and received a get, a document that a husband gives to his wife to initiate a divorce under Jewish law (Halacha). He and his ex-wife had no children, so when he saw Nina, he was finally free to reacquaint himself with her on his own terms. There was no pressure, no constraints, and, best of all, no desire to stay in the community they had been raised in. Six months later, Nina discovered she was pregnant. Although Sam planned to marry her anyway, they ended up doing it earlier than expected. But that was how they lived their lives—on their own terms.

Nina and Sam were both on the same page regarding organized religion, but they were also proud of their heritage. They decided that as parents, their child would know who she was, be proud of that identity, and embrace her Sephardic and Ashkenazi roots. Still, their house of worship would be in the air they breathed; the floor would be the earth beneath their feet; the pews would be any tree stump or fold-up lawn chair—wherever they took a load off, that’s where they would pray.

Miriam, or Mimi, as her father affectionately called her, was a walking danger zone. She was always encouraged to learn with all five senses—sometimes even six. This imaginative approach led to many dirty walls, painted surfaces, and colorful clothes. She read at a very young age, spoke before she could crawl, and learned to write her name before she could recite "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

“Momma, look... M.I.M.I!”

“Good job, sheyner meydl (pretty girl),” her mother would dote on her, as did her father.

Speaking of her father, Sam had a passion for folklore and mysticism—a trait frowned upon in their childhood community. But that didn’t hinder his love for the strange and unusual stories from the Kabbalah, especially the ones about the Golem.

One night, at the tender age of five, as the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, Miriam snuggled under her warm blanket, her eyes wide with anticipation. Her father sat beside her, a gentle smile on his face, ready to weave a story that would transport her to a world of wonder.

“Once upon a time, in the bustling streets of Prague, there lived a wise and kind Rabbi named Judah Loew,” he began, his voice soft and melodic. “He was known far and wide as the Maharal, a master of the ancient texts and a protector of his people. But during this time, the Jewish community faced great danger from those who did not understand them.”

Miriam listened intently as her father continued, “In his heart, Rabbi Loew knew he needed to find a way to protect his people from harm. One night, as the moon cast a silvery glow over the city, he gathered his thoughts and began to create something extraordinary: a Golem. This creature, made from the very clay of the earth, would be his answer.”

Her father leaned closer, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Using special words and the sacred letters of God’s name, Rabbi Loew breathed life into the Golem. And just like that, the clay took form, becoming a great protector—strong and loyal, ready to defend the innocent.”

Miriam’s imagination soared as she pictured the towering figure, its clay body glistening under the moonlight. “But, my dear,” her father said, his tone turning more serious, “the Golem was not just a mindless being. It followed the Rabbi’s commands, but as time went on, it began to act on its own. It became a force of power, and with that power came great responsibility.”

“What happened next, Daddy?” Miriam asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“Ah, my little one,” he replied, “the Golem’s strength was both a blessing and a curse. Though it protected the Jewish community, it also raised questions about creation and control. Rabbi Loew realized that he needed to put the Golem to rest to prevent it from causing harm. With a heavy heart, he dismantled the magical words that had given it life, returning it to the clay from which it was made.”

Miriam thought for a moment, absorbing the story. “So, the Golem was both a hero and a lesson?”

“Exactly, my dear,” her father said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “The Golem teaches us about the power of creation and the importance of using that power wisely. It reminds us that with great strength comes great responsibility.”

As her father’s voice faded into the gentle rhythm of the night, Miriam felt a sense of wonder wash over her. The story of the Golem would stay with her—a fantastical tale of bravery, wisdom, and the magic that exists in the world, just waiting to be discovered. With a soft yawn, she closed her eyes, dreaming of clay giants and the bravery of her ancestors. This was the moment Miriam inherited her father’s passion for all things Jewish folklore, magic, and mysticism... especially the Golem.

Deep Loss

Miriam wouldn’t be the only child for much longer. Five years after that night of awakening, her mother had a surprise announcement for both Miriam and her father. The happy little accident, Grace Liraz Cohen, was born on March 30, 2000. Given the significant age difference, contrasting personalities, and the shift in attention Miriam received from the moment her mother went into labor, she felt unseen for much of Gracie’s early life.

However, it wouldn’t always feel that way. It’s a shame it took tragedy to reunite the sisters. Miriam had been away at college when she received the call no child, at any age, wants to receive.

“Mimi, honey. It’s Claudette,” her mother’s best friend and the mother of Gracie’s best friend. “Honey, I am so sorry to be the one to tell—”

“No, no... don’t say it.” She didn’t think she could cry, but the tremor in her chin and the sharp sting of salty fluid welling in her bottom lid became too heavy to contain. “H-How?”

“Drunk driver, Oyster Bay Expressway.” Claudette sounded shaken, and Miriam always admired the younger-looking older woman’s ability to be stone-faced at the drop of a hat. The funerals are in two days. Will you be able to make it back?”

She noticed how Claudette didn’t mention her younger sister, only ten and now all alone. After both her parents left their modern Orthodox community, the families they had loved disowned them; well, that’s how it felt. “How’s Gracie?” Mimi asked, sniffling and holding back tears. “Where is she?”

There was a long and awkward hesitation before Claudette shot it out like a bullet, “Hospital. She was in the back seat.”

The only hesitation came from Claudette, but there was only action from Miriam. Immediately, she hung up, grabbed her wallet and keys, and drove the six hours from The University of the Arts (UArts) in Philadelphia to Cedarhurst without stopping.

Once there, she pulled into the driveway of her childhood home. As Miriam stood on the sidewalk, her eyes were drawn to the charming house that had stood proudly at the corner of the street since 1906. Its natural brick façade, rich in warm tones, exuded a timeless elegance, while the crisp white shutters framed the two big bay windows, inviting light and warmth into the cozy interior. The windows, with their gentle curves, seemed to smile down at her, reflecting the vibrant life of the neighborhood that surrounded them.

A welcoming porch wrapped around the front, adorned with intricate railings and a few potted plants that added splashes of color. It was a place where neighbors could gather, share stories, and watch the world go by. The lawn was a masterpiece of careful design, with lush green grass perfectly manicured and flowerbeds bursting with seasonal blooms that danced in the gentle breeze.

This house, nestled in Cedarhurst, was more than just a structure; it was a symbol of community and heritage, a reflection of the values and traditions that defined the neighborhood. Miriam felt a sense of nostalgia wash over her as she admired its beauty, imagining the laughter and love that had filled its rooms over the decades.

Claudette lived next door, but she stood outside the front door on the porch, her arms hanging loosely by her sides. Her usually calm yet joyful demeanor was gone, replaced by a flat sense of turbulence as she greeted Miriam.

“Where is she?” Miriam didn’t have time to focus on the dead; she needed to see the life still living inside that house.

“Inside, upstairs, sleeping. Come on, I have coffee and pastries. You should eat; you look like the walking...” Claudette nearly choked on her words, catching herself before she could finish. “You know what I mean.”

Two days later, they lowered two caskets into the ground, side by side. Miriam hadn’t planned on staying, but what choice did she have? After seeing the sleeping form of her little sister—her arm in a purple cast up to her shoulder, hairline fractures stitched up, and her right hand bandaged due to the burns she sustained trying to get herself and her parents out of the car—Miriam thought, “No one was there with her.” She quietly shut the door, leaving it slightly ajar. Claudette’s daughter lay in the matching bed on the right.

“What do you plan on doing about Gracie?” Claudette asked as she lifted her cup to her lips, steam rising from the hot black liquid.

With a shrug, Mimi replied, “Beats me. How am I supposed to raise my sister?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You start by losing the selfish, self-righteous attitude and do what’s right by her.” Well, that was brutal honesty.

“I can see why Nina was friends with you,” Mimi shot back, lighting a clove cigarette. “If you know so much about ten-year-old girls, why don’t you do it?”

With a scoff, Claudette set down her cup, stood up, and stomped over in her black, pointed-toe stilettos, ripping the dark brown, black-filtered cancer stick out of Miriam’s mouth and putting it out in her glass of lemonade.

“Oh, I don’t know. Because you’re her sister! It shouldn’t be a fucking complication! She was alone on a pitch-black stretch of highway, Miriam. Her parents died on impact—your parents, too.” Claudette stood with her right hip pushed out, her hand on her hip, and her other hand pointed at Miriam. “You know, the ones you left behind to pursue your dreams. Gracie looks up to you, always has, and the moment she needs you, you scream, ‘Woe-is-me!’ Newsflash, little girl: the world doesn’t fucking revolve around you!”

Miriam’s eyes narrowed. How dare you, you Marilyn wannabe! She made a mental note. “Fine, fine. I’ll bring her back with me to Philly... happy?”

The Next Morning

Walking downstairs, there was a stillness in the air that felt stale and pungent with disappointment. “Morning, Gracie,” Miriam yawned as she greeted her sister. But there was no sense of contentment on the once-sweet girl's face. “Have you eaten yet? Because if you haven’t, you should now. We have a long drive ahead of us.”

Gracie flinched at the mention of her older sister using the word "us" and a "long drive." The ten-year-old heard everything last night. It made her restless to know that her sister, whom she’d always admired, didn’t want her. It’s not like she was a dependent toddler or infant. Gracie was always praised for being such an independent child; she could dress herself at three, fix her own cereal, and carefully pour her own drinks by four. She didn’t need her sister to “take care” of her. And if she knew her at all—which she didn’t—she’d know that. Hell, she knew how to do laundry, make her bed, dust, and vacuum. It wasn’t that her parents made her work for her room and board; she genuinely liked taking care of herself.

“I know you don’t want me to stay with you,” Gracie said, her tone flat, lacking care or connection. She resigned herself to the knowledge that even after their parents’ sudden passing, her sister still wanted no part of her. Just as their hazel eyes connected and Miriam looked like she was about to respond, Gracie stood from the stool and closed her eyes, as if centering herself. She’d cried enough for the loss of her mom and dad; now, she obviously had to do that with her sister, whom she’d hoped to get to know. “Well, you don’t have to concern yourself with my well-being, Ms. Cohen. I spoke with Claudette and Birdie (Bernedette, Claudette’s daughter and Gracie’s best friend). I’ll be living with them, and Claudette is going to have guardianship papers prepared. I suggest you sign them.”

“Gracie, please... I know how it all sounded last night, and I am so sorry—” Before she could finish, Gracie held up a hand to stop her.

“You don’t seem to get it, Mimi. I—I need-d-ed you, and y-you may have showed up, but you had no intention of taking me home with you. So, sell the house, take your share, give me mine for my future, and leave me alone.”

As Mimi blinked in disbelief, she grabbed her little sister’s arm and just stood there in silence. Until Gracie broke out into a pained weep, snatched her arm out of her sister’s grip, and walked out of the kitchen, then the living room, and finally out the front door. Over the next five years, Mimi would feel like an orphan without any siblings. She allowed her decisions and her resentment to change her—remaining alone in her grief, her successes, and her failures if she had only realized how wide open that had left her heart to be broken repeatedly, with no safe place to land. opening installment here to see it in the Lantern reader.