More Black Days

My whimsical aunt. One "black" day she slapped my face so hard that blood started gushing from my mouth. I stood there stunned, wondering what I had done to deserve such treatment. We had just finished lunch, and I was sweeping as she recited the grace after meals - one of my regular chores. Then she hollered at me: "the dust pan is tameh (impure) - don't you dare sweep while I am blessing". The sore healed and the pain abated, but the wounds in my soul stayed forever. Hardly, a fourteen-year-old child, the smile disappeared from my face. My aunt and I lived under the same roof, but and ocean of ice separated between us. From that day on I prayed for a miracle which would set me free, to return to the warmth of my family.

I so missed the freedom of my parents' home, living in degrading conditions. One day she left town and forgot to take the keys out of the door that led to the store. On days she left home, Aunt Irene usually left me two eggs and some fat to prepare scrambled eggs for lunch, but on this day she also forgot to leave me the fat, which she kept in the store. I was too afraid to touch the keys and open the door to the store, so I made scrambled eggs in a dry skillet.

© David Muskal, 2001