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Squashed

As told to Brocha Miller

“You sure you don’t want some grapes?” Shana asks, motioning to the plastic bag on the desk. “No thanks.” I shake my head. It’s the first day of seminary, first day inIsrael, and first day in a dorm. My new roommate, Shana, is finishing off her snack, left over from the plane ride. I’m exhausted from the long flight.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

grapes

Beside me is my new best friend, Kaily, studying at my house for the first time. Kaily has walked into the kitchen, her beautiful brown eyes widening as she scans the room, the stacks of dirty dishes, the empty boxes and crumpled bags, the sour milk container, tipped at the edge of the counter and slowly drip, dripping onto the floor. Her eyes come to rest on the lone grape that had rolled under the table, and is now squashed, a mashed lump of pits and juice, a swarm of ants streaming toward it.

I blink and the screen slides back to the dorm and the open face of my friendly roommate.

“No, I don’t eat grapes.”

 

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MM217
 
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