When I opened my eyes a moment later, I saw the orange on top of the piano. I stood on my bed and picked it up, holding it for a long time, rolling it between my hands, just as he had done. Then I scraped the peel, closed my eyes, and smelled. Usually, when I hear a story I like, or a joke, I turn around and tell it to someone. Anyone who happens to be around. I’m not sure why. Maybe because part of me just doesn’t get it until I tell it to someone else. But not the story of the orange. This one I got. And I didn’t want to let it go. It was as though a little star had floated down from the sky, right to me, like that old song my mom sometimes sings—“Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away . . .” That’s what I had: a little bit of light in my pocket. I thought of my grandmother. I wondered if she still had a spark of light somewhere deep inside, or if it’s gone forever. That reminded me of something Rabbi Buxelbaum said in a sermon when I was a little kid.
