Golden wrappers

There are days that just beg to be spilled onto paper. Some bits of those days that one wishes he could treasure forever, like we used to keep the golden wrappers from chocolate. Smooth it out, carefully, on a hard surface, take care not to tear it, and put it somewhere safe. Then you get to feel so rich and special, because there is a golden paper in a secret place, and you can take it out and feel it, and rustle it, and remember it, whenever you wish. There are days when golden papers come raining onto you from the sky, so unexpected, so unreal, that by the time you realize they're coming, all you have is a white sheet of paper to immortalize them in.
Those are the days when I have the strength to laugh at annoying and painful things. At a fight on the bus, a man yelling in a thin squeaky voice, through tears, I can do whatever I want in here! You can't stop me!  When the prospective employer, looking into my CV, thoughtfully mutters, but you don't know how to use a computer, right? No-no, of course I do, I assure him. Office, and Internet, whatever you wish. Certainly enough to teach. - But you can't manage a tablet, right? Can you read in English? I  mean, to teach literature? No, that's not enough, if you have no experience. Teaching literature to Anglos is not good enough, no.  And you don't have this experience and that, and you're no good altogether, and you're a woman, we don't need you, good bye. Thus he spake to his own sweet self, and showed me the door.
And that's when the real fun started.
Because when one is sad, Jerusalem is the best medicine. And so are the kiddies. I don't know if they really were interested in prehistoric antlers, ossuaries, hieroglyphics, African masks and abstract art, but even if they pretended to listen for my sake, that is already one golden paper in my collection.
The Rose Garden, and Gan Sacher, and the taste of Jerusalem sweet chilly wind on my lips. And dancing in the sprinklers, to the utter amusement of the drivers of diplomatic cars in the Government District. There is a taste of the winter in the summer, and a ray of the summer in the winter. Just like in the depth of sadness and mourning there is always a ray of light, and at the height of joy there is a trace of sadness. Jerusalem crows  have the garments and the gait of a Rabbi, they tilt their heads aside, look at you, as if they know where you keep all your golden foils. There are trees to climb and grass to earth yourself on, and a silly-noisy-Bradbury's  "Farenheit" -like talking walls. Inescapable noise and light. Suddenly remedied for me by Biblical quotations on the wall. Whaaat? Yeah, you heard me. They have C3PO, and Winnie-the Pooh, and smurfs, and Moses hovering over it all, right by the roof, with the quote right next to him. Lest we forget we're Jewish over here. Another golden foil paper descending onto me while my kids eat ice cream and talk about films and football. 
And another golden leaf comes floating down when I meet somebody I've been looking forward to meeting for such a long time,  recognize her in the crowd not because I saw her, but because I felt her being there. And that feeling of having known someone your whole life. 
And all the while Jerusalem air, and noise and presence,  and tasting it with my whole self. I missed you so much, my dear city. You're forever in my dreams.
And another golden leaf is given to me when we get on that bus, and there is no room, and I'm hanging on by some miracle, and a woman comes over, and carries Tamara over for me, till we can both sit down, and I'm overwhelmed by the kindness from a  complete stranger. By the miracle of my child not minding strangers to a point of hysteria. By this day, so full and so real. And then my son turns to me, and says, mommy, thank you so much. Even when you do something for yourself, we know that in the end, it's really for us. That's it, the curtain must come down now.  
Somehow, the smaller the thing is, the more precious it will be to me, because life is weaved of small things, and if I miss them, I shall miss out on life itself. But really, God has a sense of humour, because as I develop the philosophy of small things to keep me happy, muse and write and dream, Michlala decides to check my writing skills by giving us a composition to write... about the small things in life. But that's already another story.