“It should be as your teshuvah, in case you were mistaken. Although, sheifelah, I’m not convinced that you were”
I t is a busy day and I’m moving quickly to its rhythm. I’m just a streak of color on this Friday afternoon racing down Park Avenue between the pharmacy and the hosiery store.
Her jangling cup and weary voice are thrust into my sweaty line of vision; her black baggy button-down shirt hanging to mid-thigh on her heavy body. I look down and see a pair of fuzzy pajama socks stuffed into her worn black shoes the socks I just bought my young children for a bedtime bribe. Socks I just bought at the dollar store.
I reach into my purse and am disconcerted; I only have small change. A dime a nickel another dime. My eyes meet hers and move quickly over her black snood pushed low on her grimy face. I know my money is not enough for whatever it is she needs.
“This is all I have on me. I’m sorry. Good Shabbos. Be well.”
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