It’s the day before Yom Kippur. I
have to see my lawyer for round two of purchasing an apartment in Israel. I’m
so nervous I throw my sunglasses out with the trash. Now I’m more nervous; I
pounce on a boy who’s pushed in front of me to board the bus. Kids here come
first and go first. Girls understand queue decorum; I make a mental note to teach
the boys.
I return from the lawyer to my
rental, locate my rubber gloves, and storm out to the huge orange bin to dig
out my glasses. The bin had been overflowing for weeks; last night miraculously
it was emptied and my sunglasses are clearly visible, at the bottom, four feet
down. There’s only one person in sight, a boy waiting for a bus. I ask him to
help, thinking we’ll turn the monster over and I’ll replace its filthy
contents. He smiles, jumps in, rescues my glasses, and hands them to me with a
grin. I make a mental note to smack myself in the head.
Towards the end of Yom Kippur I
re-enter the little synagogue. Nine year old girls are pouring their hearts. I
want to tell them they have never done anything to warrant such contrition, but
that would be like yelling no fire in a theater; the girls
would be alarmed.
