Where I had once pulled the purse strings, I now had to open them wide for the jingle of donations
P
urim morning. I hear the Megillah just after dawn and return to a house enwrapped in sweet, slumbering silence.
A rustle. A rattle of the front door. I turn, and I see a white envelope appearing under the door. I snatch it up, finger the smooth paper. And then I open it.
Matanos l’evyonim.
What’s money? A few green papers, usually soggy, with the face of some long-gone politician in the center. It’s the fodder that keeps Visa sponsoring shoes, clothing, and food. It’s the pillar that holds up the roof over my head.
I used to hold a top-level position in my office. I did well. Hardly did I need to even sully myself with hand-to-hand dollars. My earnings rolled into the bank, from where they rolled further, like well-oiled cogs, into my mortgage, tuition, and expenses accounts. Thus covered, I was able to focus my energies on worthier pursuits, like giving to others.
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