I was deep inside the story of the Megillah, delighting in words I hadn’t focused on for so long

The streets were dark, unrecognizable.

The echo of our footsteps was a cliché, yet it sounded different from the times I had come home from a wedding late at night.

There was a wash of something portending light beyond the silent buildings, and we hurried.

Purim morning, and we were going to daven with a neitz minyan.

Me, I’m a night owl. My alarm clock is a brutal necessity as the mother of children who need to catch buses and the school bell. Convincing me to willingly get out of bed one minute earlier than necessary is not for the fainthearted — yet here I was, mind coming into focus as I clutched tissues and Megillah and looked at my watch again.

A friend of mine had asked me to come with her to listen to the Megillah leining in a formal setting. She had no one to lein for her at home, and listening to the Megillah in strangers’ kitchens/  dining rooms made her uncomfortable. She wanted to hear Megillah in shul.

If you looked, the ground was littered with debris left by revelers who were now slumbering. Some strands of tinsel, a clown’s ripped nose. Other than that, it could have been a regular morning, dawn about to break.