But I can’t do it.
I can’t take the jar.
I stop at the workbench,
and that’s when something unexpected happens.
I see the treasure box on the shelf
is already open,
the lid lifted, the chains undone.
On the shelf above it
is a canvas bag already packed,
the jar of clay,
a note rolled up tied together with twine.
Here. From behind me,
my grandfather unzips my backpack.
It’s heavy, put it in here.
Grandpa?
He looks younger in his white clothes
but tired
from long hours at the synagogue.
You are right, Etan.
It’s been a long day of reflection.
This clay is part of a bigger story of who we are.
It should be for all people.
We—should be for all people.
When it didn’t work on your grandmother, I lost so much hope,
but each of us has their own story.
You have a chance to be the light, to help a friend.
This is what it’s for.
He smiles, puts the jar into my pack.
Mix it with the clay in the stream
and when you do, say the prayers you know,
think of good things,
your mother, this shop, your friend.
All should be well.
I turn
and his arms are around me.