Natalia Zaretsky Heisenberg’s Principle of Uncertainty An observer alters an observed object… Through the kitchen window he sees wild gooseberries with nipple-hard berries. If he doesn’t look, would they glisten in the sun the same way? His body takes up some space in the car, ready for a morning drive — and his wife’s body, in a doorframe. Each wears a habitual goodbye grin. Would it be different on other faces? How long does a day or a year linger in his hands? A child’s day stretches like rubber; he — young — is wrapped in the eternity of love-making; adult — he doesn’t notice mornings or evenings: gets up, has coffee, goes to work and back; aged — his body hurts from turning to look back into his faraway youth. The mirror in the hallway reflects spiral stairs behind him, leading to the bedroom of intimacy, a family’s dog photo on the wall, his wife in a house robe, crossing the corridor to the kitchen. Would the life of the house be the same for a different husband of hers? How to describe all that uncertainty while standing on one foot, as rabbis say?

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