People are tearing their tops and you’re buying a new one
Friday morning, Lag B’omer.
That one three years ago, the one that had my mind reeling, thoughts scattering haphazardly like dry leaves in the wind on a fall day. Step here and crunch.
Meron? Rabi Shimon. Holy fire. Bodies falling over one another, heat, cries. Tragedy, how is it possible?
Crunch.
But my seven-year-old son needed a shirt for Shabbos.
You can’t go and do a normal thing like buy clothes. Not today.
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