Life is an endless series of stories, the stories of us all. Holidays, no matter whose they are, celebrate these stories. They persist, in spite of politics, in spite of wars. It’s the stories we celebrate: of liberation, of rebirth, of flowers that always appear after winter.

Passover, Easter, Spring

On my way to my friend Bruce’s apartment
I met a man named Ahmed.
“I am a Syrian refugee,” he said.
“Can you help me?” “I’ve been thinking about
Syrian refugees. How to help and what to do.
“My four children have no food,” he said.
“Where do you live now?” I’m not sure why I asked him that.
“Do you want to go there?” he said.
“Not now but maybe another day. “
In my notebook he wrote
an address and then
children’s ages and their names.
I had twenty dollars
in my wallet to give  to him and we
said goodbye and I felt something
was wrong. But what?
I told this story many times and most people thought
Ahmed was not who he said maybe he was not
even a Syrian refugee I believe he was
a man named Ahmed who  needed twenty dollars
Was there more?