Poorimole Here

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.

“What reversal could there be for me?” Schmuel whispered to a passing earthworm. “I am a mole who remembers nothing but dark. My feast is roots. my mask is my own face.” poorimole

Above, the child whispered into the hole: “I see you, little mole. Happy Purim.” He began to dig upward