Everything she had was in a shopping bag — and now it was lost

D

alia hugs her shawl. The bus shelter offers a mere mask of protection against the hard chill, and the wind is unusually vicious today.

Sitting at the end of the bench, she watches chapters of life passing her by. People surge onward, some with pinched expressions, others with the calm certainty of those who belong to society.

Dalia wonders what it would feel like to belong. She herself sits on the fringe, like the tree that falls, unheard and alone, in the forest. Is there a sound of impact if no one’s around to hear the crashing of the leaves and branches, the thunder of the mighty trunk hitting the ground? Does it even happen at all?

Above her head is plastered an enlarged image of Shimon Peres. Now there’s a man who has a place in society, Dalia thinks. And based on the campaign that was taking over the country, his position was so comfortable that there was probably enough space for him to share.

But what did that mean to her? Nothing. He was just a cold face on the wall.

The wind whistles through the gaps in the glass. Dalia wishes she had a coat.

A kindly old man drops a few shekels into the aluminum pan sitting at her feet. The coins jingle. Now there’s a noise that’s real, she thinks. But then again, money always is.

Is she herself real? Maybe only in the nightmares of people grateful they’re not the ones sitting on a bench, clinging to a single, faded bag. But it is these few possessions that are tethering her to life and the living. What is she without them? Is she anything at all?

Dalia pulls a worn set of mittens out of the bag. It is cold, so cold, and she feels adrift. Would she still be here if she lets go of her bag, she wonders, just like… so? She pulls on her mittens and looks at her hands. They feel disembodied, grasping at nothing at but air.