Poorimole

“What reversal could there be for me?” Schmuel whispered to a passing earthworm. “I am a mole who remembers nothing but dark. My feast is roots. my mask is my own face.”

He began to dig upward. Not to leave the earth, but to leave a small tunnel open—just in case, next year, the child dropped another crumb of joy. poorimole

Above, the child whispered into the hole: “I see you, little mole. Happy Purim.” “What reversal could there be for me

Every year around the month of Adar, when the humans above spun noisemakers and dressed in costumes for Purim, Schmuel felt a strange stirring. He would dig toward the surface—not to emerge, but to listen. He heard the story of Esther, read aloud through the soil: a queen who hid her people like seeds in her sleeves, a villain who fell, a reversal written in scrolls. my mask is my own face