On it are words that I recognise to be my own, but can no longer read.
Hebrew. I’m Jewish by birth, see. And once I could read these words with fluency and confidence- confidence not just in my writing, but in my religion. Ha! Just look at the gold star; once upon a time, a teacher must have believed in me too. It’s ridiculous- funny even.
And now look at this piece of paper. Old and crinkled, with childish ink, where a pen -pressed too hard into the page- has left its mark.
Yes, this part of me has definitely been diminished.
But it does still live on. The paper is still here, and although it’s years after I can remember ever writing those words, this side of me is certainly still around.
In fact, I think I’d have to try pretty hard to get rid of whatever it is about me that’s Jewish. I don’t pray. I don’t go to Synagogues. I don’t even believe in God.
But I’m -somehow, some way that I don’t yet understand- still Jewish.