Miriam had forgotten what laughter sounded like in her own throat.
The late afternoon sun stretched long fingers across the dusty road as she trudged home from the market, head low, basket banging against her hip. Another day ended, another day she hadn’t felt… anything. Just a heavy, aching nothingness, a numbness so stubborn it seemed to have seeped into her bones.
“Don’t be grieved, for the joy of Hashem is your strength,” she had once taught her children, once whispered to herself after her husband died. She had meant it then. Now it felt like a memory of another woman’s courage, distant and unreachable.
The cottage stood quietly at the edge of the orchard, a patchwork of stone, stubborn vines, and wildflowers Miriam hadn't had the heart to tend lately. She dropped the basket on the table and sank into a chair, staring at the wall. She knew she should pray. Should thank G-d for the bread, the roof, the air filling her lungs. Instead, she just sat… empty.
As twilight softened the edges of the world, a small sound broke through. A crooked little song, high and off-key. Miriam turned her head toward the window.
Out under the olive tree stood Yael, her neighbor’s daughter — no more than five, hair a messy halo around her face — twirling in wide, clumsy loops. In her hand, she clutched a bedraggled white flower, waving it like a scepter, singing nonsense words with wild joy.
Miriam almost turned away—until Yael saw her.
With a triumphant grin, the little girl marched to the window, thrust the ragged flower through the open space, and declared, "For you!"
Miriam blinked, stunned. She hadn’t spoken more than a few necessary words in days. She hadn't expected anyone to notice.
The flower was imperfect, two petals already ragged from Yael’s small fist. But it was real. Offered without reason, without demand. Just because.
Miriam reached out slowly, her fingers brushing Yael's. The child beamed.
"Thank you," Miriam managed, voice hoarse.
Later, as she tucked the tiny flower into a cup of water, she felt something unsettling break loose inside her chest: a tenderness, almost a pain. She pressed her hand to her heart and, for the first time in a long time, whispered aloud, "Thank You, G-d, for not forgetting me."
Tears stung her eyes—not the crushing kind of despair she knew so well lately, but the softer, saltier kind that clean things out.
A memory stirred: "Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning."
Miriam went outside. The sky had deepened to rich velvet. The first stars blinked shyly overhead. The air smelled of sun-warmed earth and far-off rain. She lifted her face to the heavens and breathed deeply.
There was no grand miracle. No sudden laughter. Just this: a flower, a child's song, the memory of ancient promises quietly alive under the stars.
Choosing joy, she realized, wasn’t a feeling you waited for. It was something you reached toward, even when your hands trembled. Even when your heart felt hollow. Even if all you could muster was a whisper: "I choose You."
Standing under the olive tree, a battered flower pressed to her chest, Miriam smiled—a small, cracked thing, but real. She wasn't healed yet. Maybe she wouldn't be for a while. But she wasn't alone. And somehow, tonight, that was enough.
---
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
Miriam had forgotten what laughter sounded like in her own throat.
The late afternoon sun stretched long fingers across the dusty road as she trudged home from the market, head low, basket banging against her hip. Another day ended, another day she hadn’t felt… anything. Just a heavy, aching nothingness, a numbness so stubborn it seemed to have seeped into her bones.
“Don’t be grieved, for the joy of Hashem is your strength,” she had once taught her children, once whispered to herself after her husband died. She had meant it then. Now it felt like a memory of another woman’s courage, distant and unreachable.
The cottage stood quietly at the edge of the orchard, a patchwork of stone, stubborn vines, and wildflowers Miriam hadn't had the heart to tend lately. She dropped the basket on the table and sank into a chair, staring at the wall. She knew she should pray. Should thank G-d for the bread, the roof, the air filling her lungs. Instead, she just sat… empty.
As twilight softened the edges of the world, a small sound broke through. A crooked little song, high and off-key. Miriam turned her head toward the window.
Out under the olive tree stood Yael, her neighbor’s daughter — no more than five, hair a messy halo around her face — twirling in wide, clumsy loops. In her hand, she clutched a bedraggled white flower, waving it like a scepter, singing nonsense words with wild joy.
Miriam almost turned away—until Yael saw her.
With a triumphant grin, the little girl marched to the window, thrust the ragged flower through the open space, and declared, "For you!"
Miriam blinked, stunned. She hadn’t spoken more than a few necessary words in days. She hadn't expected anyone to notice.
The flower was imperfect, two petals already ragged from Yael’s small fist. But it was real. Offered without reason, without demand. Just because.
Miriam reached out slowly, her fingers brushing Yael's. The child beamed.
"Thank you," Miriam managed, voice hoarse.
Later, as she tucked the tiny flower into a cup of water, she felt something unsettling break loose inside her chest: a tenderness, almost a pain. She pressed her hand to her heart and, for the first time in a long time, whispered aloud, "Thank You, G-d, for not forgetting me."
Tears stung her eyes—not the crushing kind of despair she knew so well lately, but the softer, saltier kind that clean things out.
A memory stirred: "Weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning."
Miriam went outside. The sky had deepened to rich velvet. The first stars blinked shyly overhead. The air smelled of sun-warmed earth and far-off rain. She lifted her face to the heavens and breathed deeply.
There was no grand miracle. No sudden laughter. Just this: a flower, a child's song, the memory of ancient promises quietly alive under the stars.
Choosing joy, she realized, wasn’t a feeling you waited for. It was something you reached toward, even when your hands trembled. Even when your heart felt hollow. Even if all you could muster was a whisper: "I choose You."
Standing under the olive tree, a battered flower pressed to her chest, Miriam smiled—a small, cracked thing, but real. She wasn't healed yet. Maybe she wouldn't be for a while. But she wasn't alone. And somehow, tonight, that was enough.
---
Torah and Tanakh Verses:
