A Flying Broomstick

I was crossing the Jerusalem highway to get to my new studio, holding a broomstick in one hand and my laptop in the other. I was tempted to twirl the stick, flip it with my thumb high in the air, catch it, and march across the bridge. My muscles remembered, my fingers remembered, and my mind searched for faded images of childhood. Sundays at the JCC Community Center were stacked with one lesson after another. Keeping me busy was my mother’s solution to keeping me out of trouble. We both knew that. I was proud when I graduated from the short, clunky beginner’s baton to the longer, thinner one with the two weighted ends.

Years later, after I was married with children of my own, my mother appeared with a gift, my old baton. It was in perfect condition. Before I hid it in my children’s closet, I tested what I remembered. Could I still throw it in the air and turn around in time to catch it? It felt good to feel the thin metal in my hand again. With my eyes closed, I moved through old routines before stashing it away. A few years later, my mother asked where the baton was and whether the children were using it. I lied. I had thrown it away, knowing they wouldn’t be going on the same path I had.

Now, with grandchildren of my own, that child in me can still imagine doing what I did at nine.  And it’s good to know that my muscles hold on to my story.