Ina took us to the marble-clad art museum—the “whited sepulchre,” as Rafi called it—and showed us how to dance in our minds with a painting that looked like food stains on an old work shirt. The thing would have incensed me as fraudulent had I come across it a month before meeting her. Now it became a mirror, a weird cousin to play with, a thing that offered up a meaning that wasn’t mine until I looked closer.
