The phone rings again. Who on earth calls on Purim? In the middle of the seudah?
As told to Rochel Samet
I
wake up to noise.
Downstairs: peal of the doorbell, chatter of voices, excited exclamations.
Upstairs: shrieks of laughter, whirr of blow-dryer, zippers and snaps and rustling as Henny does her hair and helps Sara with her Queen Esther extravaganza.
Outside: booming music, wobbly voices singing off-key, drumbeats and groggers and rhythmic pounding under my skull.
It’s Purim.
I try to sit, flop back down.
Maybe I’ll feel better soon.
Yeah, and maybe Queen Esther will appear to point a golden scepter and magically cure everything.
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