What does that feel like, to be at peace with your lot in life, even if that lot is standing at the corner of Kikar Shabbos and Malchei Yisrael on a cool Jerusalem morning, annoying everyone within a ten-mile radius?

Shira

I won’t open the door. I sweep right up until the doorframe and then stop, so I’m nose to nose with the light pink wood. For a nanosecond, I envision flinging it wide open, then standing aside, so the ghosts and memories and dust swirl past me, leaving the room… empty.

So empty.

I stay there for a moment, lost in time, broom dangling limply in my hand. I startle when it clatters forward, knocking into the door.

Stupid broom. The light pink wood now has a thin scratch on it. I rub at it viciously but it won’t budge.

I need to go to the hardware store. This minute.

***

Twenty-eight minutes later, I’m standing in the paint section, looking at swatches.

I want to be at the grays, comparing Pavestone and Dovetail. I should be at the grays. But instead, I’m at the pinks. Rosy Outlook, that’s the color. I remember debating with Aryeh the merits of Millenial Pink and Faint Coral before we agreed on Rosy Outlook. Shvil hazahav if you will.

I stare at the swatch, clutching the handle of my wagon. I want to move, to ask a worker to help me load my cart with Argos. But instead I’m crying, surrounded by the happiness of bright colors.