I believe in magic.
Not many other people do.
Most are squares and who can tell squares what to think about anything other than potato chips?
The other day I ran into a Hassidic mystic from 47th Street.
He looked not so much down on his luck as hurting in health.
I approached the shuffling magician and said, “I remember you from the street. I was the Sahbbat Goy.”
“I remember you too. You are old too.”
He took my hand and regarded at my palm. His fingers traced runes. He coughed without health and said, “You think too much.”
Another glance.
“And you love too much.”
Neither was a curse and I wanted to say Danke, but he was gone.
Vanished.
To an atom.
I looked at my palm. I saw what he saw. Nothing, but the truth and that is the beauty of magic.