you didn’t suffer that way, too,” our stranger told her. “But thank you for saying sorry.”
The animals chewed and shuffled, nosed at the hay. It seemed we were already moving too quickly. We were at the beginning of time just days ago and already we were apologizing. We thought it would be years before we would have had to start saying sorry. Perl and I knew the truth before the rest, that if hope was the first feeling, regret was the second or third.
“Can I say a prayer, and will someone else record it?” the stranger asked. Perl took out her notebook. “I pray that I am empty enough to hold you all,” the stranger said.
“You are,” Moishe said. “Enough, I mean. You have to be. You are the reason we believe.” It was exactly what I would have said if I could speak.
“I will try. I pray.” Perl scribbled it all down and ripped the page out. She folded it carefully up and handed it over, like a secret we knew but wanted to keep anyway.
“I wonder how many terrible things we do to each other every day?” the healer asked. Hersh looked at me, apologizing with every part of his face. Kayla’s eyes were clear, regretless.
“For one,” the chicken farmer said, “people sneak in and steal the eggs.”
“Children leave their toys out for me to trip on,” the baker’s mother said.
“I wish that people would remember my name,” added the man whose name no one could remember, even now.
“No one ever comes to check on me,” whispered an old woman who was no one’s grandmother or mother or friend. “No one knows if I’m even alive.”
The old man with only one eye asked if we could start over yet again and this time do it really, really right. Much better than the first—or second, someone corrected—time. Everyone else agreed that we could not. The butcher thought we could try to grow up more slowly, more carefully, and the baker promised to check on the old woman every Saturday, at least. The children said they would stop stealing the eggs, which they admitted were never eaten, only crushed for the joy of it in their pink hands. Most of us said we were sorry, except the ones who insisted they had done nothing wrong. The rest of us said sorry on their behalf, which made them angry, so we said sorry to them, too. I made my apologies silently.
“You have a beautiful world,” the stranger said. “Have you appreciated it?” Had anyone even gone down the river at night to go swimming? Had anyone closed his eyes and paid attention to the smell of the rain? Did we love everything wonderful around us? Had we kissed the old women on the tops of their warm heads? The children on their sticky cheeks? “We are trying very hard to be good,” Igor said.
“Yes, we really are trying,” the jeweler said.
The stranger asked, “How will we look after the new world? You don’t get to keep things unless you take care of them.”
“Let’s divide the jobs up,” the once wheat cutter, now silver polisher suggested. After some discussion and several small arguments, we decided on a system. The rain ran her fingers down the windows of the barn and the animals got used to our company as we designated committees of appreciation.
The Committee for the Appreciation of the River. The Committee for the Appreciation of the Grass. Committees for the Appreciation of Our Village, the Way We Build Our Houses, the Way We Feed the Dogs, the Way We Care for the Wounded, the Way We Slaughter the Cows. The Committee for Treating All Ailments, which consisted only of the healer. The Committee for the Appreciation of the Barn Which Is Also the House of God. The Committee for What We Have and Where We Have It. The Committee for the Appreciation of Our Stranger, the Recorder. The Committee Against Using the Rain as an Excuse to Be Unkind. And of course, the Committee for Apologies.
We tore up the plans for the temple with the library and the ebony bookshelves and promised to appreciate the barn. The jeweler took the
The animals chewed and shuffled, nosed at the hay. It seemed we were already moving too quickly. We were at the beginning of time just days ago and already we were apologizing. We thought it would be years before we would have had to start saying sorry. Perl and I knew the truth before the rest, that if hope was the first feeling, regret was the second or third.
“Can I say a prayer, and will someone else record it?” the stranger asked. Perl took out her notebook. “I pray that I am empty enough to hold you all,” the stranger said.
“You are,” Moishe said. “Enough, I mean. You have to be. You are the reason we believe.” It was exactly what I would have said if I could speak.
“I will try. I pray.” Perl scribbled it all down and ripped the page out. She folded it carefully up and handed it over, like a secret we knew but wanted to keep anyway.
“I wonder how many terrible things we do to each other every day?” the healer asked. Hersh looked at me, apologizing with every part of his face. Kayla’s eyes were clear, regretless.
“For one,” the chicken farmer said, “people sneak in and steal the eggs.”
“Children leave their toys out for me to trip on,” the baker’s mother said.
“I wish that people would remember my name,” added the man whose name no one could remember, even now.
“No one ever comes to check on me,” whispered an old woman who was no one’s grandmother or mother or friend. “No one knows if I’m even alive.”
The old man with only one eye asked if we could start over yet again and this time do it really, really right. Much better than the first—or second, someone corrected—time. Everyone else agreed that we could not. The butcher thought we could try to grow up more slowly, more carefully, and the baker promised to check on the old woman every Saturday, at least. The children said they would stop stealing the eggs, which they admitted were never eaten, only crushed for the joy of it in their pink hands. Most of us said we were sorry, except the ones who insisted they had done nothing wrong. The rest of us said sorry on their behalf, which made them angry, so we said sorry to them, too. I made my apologies silently.
“You have a beautiful world,” the stranger said. “Have you appreciated it?” Had anyone even gone down the river at night to go swimming? Had anyone closed his eyes and paid attention to the smell of the rain? Did we love everything wonderful around us? Had we kissed the old women on the tops of their warm heads? The children on their sticky cheeks? “We are trying very hard to be good,” Igor said.
“Yes, we really are trying,” the jeweler said.
The stranger asked, “How will we look after the new world? You don’t get to keep things unless you take care of them.”
“Let’s divide the jobs up,” the once wheat cutter, now silver polisher suggested. After some discussion and several small arguments, we decided on a system. The rain ran her fingers down the windows of the barn and the animals got used to our company as we designated committees of appreciation.
The Committee for the Appreciation of the River. The Committee for the Appreciation of the Grass. Committees for the Appreciation of Our Village, the Way We Build Our Houses, the Way We Feed the Dogs, the Way We Care for the Wounded, the Way We Slaughter the Cows. The Committee for Treating All Ailments, which consisted only of the healer. The Committee for the Appreciation of the Barn Which Is Also the House of God. The Committee for What We Have and Where We Have It. The Committee for the Appreciation of Our Stranger, the Recorder. The Committee Against Using the Rain as an Excuse to Be Unkind. And of course, the Committee for Apologies.
We tore up the plans for the temple with the library and the ebony bookshelves and promised to appreciate the barn. The jeweler took the
Similar Books
