Poorimole !!top!! -

“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.”

And Schmuel, the poorimole, wept—not from sorrow this time, but because even in the dark, someone had looked for him. poorimole

But that night, a child dropped a triangular pastry—a hamantasch—into a crack in the ground. The pastry tumbled down, dusted with poppy seeds like little moons. Schmuel touched it. Sweet. Strange. And for one moment, he felt not poor, but royal. He put a poppy seed on his nose like a jester’s bell. “What reversal could there be for me