Dovi realized at that moment that his father had come for the sole purpose of asking this question
This must be what it feels like to win a lottery, Dovi Korman thought as he tried to keep himself from smiling.
A thin boy with hair so blond and wispy his scalp was visible between the strands, his skin fair and somewhat blotchy, people often concluded he was as sensitive as his appearance.
He wasn’t.
Dovi sat in the passenger seat of his father’s Range Rover, holding the package his father had brought from Lakewood. The smell of the pastrami sandwich and fries was pungent enough that Dovi could see the black and white tiles of Deli Time, Shmilu behind the counter in his red apron, singing along with the Simchas Beis Hashoeivah album that played on a loop through the speakers over the counter.
Toward the end of second seder, someone had tapped Dovi on the shoulder. “Korman, I think your father’s outside.”
This one’s in print. Some of our best stories live in the magazine — subscribe to get Mishpacha every week.
