What does that feel like, to be at peace with your lot in life, even if that lot is standing at the corner of Kikar Shabbos and Malchei Yisrael on a cool Jerusalem morning, annoying everyone within a ten-mile radius?
I won’t open the door. I sweep right up until the doorframe and then stop, so I’m nose to nose with the light pink wood. For a nanosecond, I envision flinging it wide open, then standing aside, so the ghosts and memories and dust swirl past me, leaving the room… empty.
So empty.
I stay there for a moment, lost in time, broom dangling limply in my hand. I startle when it clatters forward, knocking into the door.
Stupid broom. The light pink wood now has a thin scratch on it. I rub at it viciously but it won’t budge.
I need to go to the hardware store. This minute.
Create a free account to keep reading.
