Deep under the garden, where the old rose bushes tang their roots like forgotten prayers, lived a mole named Schmuel. He was called the poorimole by the other burrowing creatures—not because he lacked worms or tunnels, but because his eyes, two tiny black beads, always seemed to be weeping. Not tears, exactly. A kind of dampness, as if the weight of the earth above pressed sorrow out of him.
Above, the child whispered into the hole: “I see you, little mole. Happy Purim.” 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. Deep under the garden, where the old rose
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. A kind of dampness, as if the weight