At the moshav modiin festival today I see a fragile old man walk past me, long grey hair, balding and white yalmuke laiden, tie dye shirt and baggy white pants. Something in his face looks like a square without corners, light seeping out gently. A salvation of sorts. I don't think much of it. Then at mincha I see him in shul, mumbling prayers to God with a rhythmic flow usually seen in those schooled in the prayer book at the tenderest of ages. Tie dye or black hat I think. And then I get it. Both.
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