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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required —After Shabbat 31a, Talmud— I cradle the scroll in my lap— its fibers hum beneath thumb and palm, warm as first morning air after frost. Somewhere, a hinge creaks. A cat slips past the fence. A neighbor coughs, low in the hall, and for a breath, the question rises on its own: “What did you do with what was given?” The Talmud asks it too, in its quiet, infinite turning of pages. Ink smudges where I lingered, fingers tracing letters like pressed petals; veins pressed by time. No tally marks for missteps, only the pressure of living leaving itself in every crease. A sparrow lifts along the lattice, wings brushing the air like thought. I feel the rhythm in my chest, and wonder how many hours passed unnoticed while I measured life in fault. I unfold the scroll further: light pools across a chipped cup, a brass key left on the sill. Dust rises in trembling motes, smelling faintly of ink and memory. The hours curl around themselves, and in the crease of a leaf, I catch something I cannot name: attention, perhaps, or the shadow of reckoning. A child stumbles along the garden path, hair catching light, hands trembling on the gate latch. I smile—not for comfort, but because her balance reminds me how fragile any hour is, how easily it slips through the fold of expectation. I fold the parchment slowly, edges soft beneath fingertips. A leaf brushes my wrist; the wind sighs through the curtains. Somewhere, a dog barks. The scroll gathers quietly in my lap, its questions hovering, like motes in a shaft of light— and I am left holding nothing but the tremor of hours, and the faint pulse of possibility that perhaps was always all that was asked.
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