Title: This eve of parting
Author: MC
Back to DirectoryStory
Instructions
Solomon lay in his electronic cot, the sound of his nasal breaths filling the still white room. Solomon was not a believer in the big man in the sky nor Freud, but he was a believer in memory. Any other Tuesday Solomon would be sitting in a rocking chair on the small balcony of the one-room retirement-home dorm where he lived with J., his sunflower, the gal that saved him from loneliness long past when he wanted to be alone. The sun was rising over that balcony, showering the playing fields and strip malls and office parks visible from Solomon's chair. In the last few months, as his body lost its ability to fight, he stopped reading the paper and doing the crossword, and J. said that's how she knew he was done with it, he'd reached the end of his endurance, since it took a screaming child or a Phillies game to tear him away from that newspaper. He'd just sit and rock and feel the light wind and the smell of cut grass and gasoline from the parking lot and try to remember what it had been like to be a young man like his grandson A. who, though Solomon didn't know it, was sitting right there in the hospital next to him with his hand on the cot's plastic handrail watching the Phillies take on the St. Louis Cardinals on the mounted television.
Memories came in flashes of light and terror, like the second a fastball comes into view, a still frame in a movie, a moment of reprieve from the aches and pains.
1944. 10 years of age. Peter Rouse tells Solomon in front of their 5th-grade art class that he was sorry about the Holocaust, but what he couldn't understand is why the Jews didn't fight back.
His father playing chess against himself at their makeshift dining table after telling his mother that once again he'd been passed over for promotions by people he trained as a wholesaler at General Mills. They needed him to sell to the Jewish stores but they wouldn't promote him because he was Jewish. This is what you call a stalemate, he said, pushing a pawn forward into a locked position. His father liked to say he immigrated from Ukraine because he was tired of history, and America was where history went to disappear, like the crow in the wintertime in that old fable.
In the top of the third, the Phillies abandoned a man on 3rd to keep the game scoreless. A. groaned, giving Solomon a knowing look. There was a small tear in the corner of Solomon's eye, and it made A.'s eye water. A. looked at the blood in a small vial protruding from a vein in Solomon's arm. A. was 24 and lost, single and behind on rent and failing as a sportswriter. He had forgot to send Solomon his latest article because he was ashamed, it was in a digital tabloid and discussed the rumors of a certain NBA star photographed in a limo with a certain skincare influencer.
The U.S. Army. Seven years after the liberation of Auschwitz and the nuclear attack on Hiroshima. He was not a fighter in school, and after the patriotic indignities of basic training he became a clerk and a medic. At nineteen years old he was sent to West Germany during the height of the Cold War. When people asked him about the war he said it was boring.
Solomon wasn't traumatized by the war, but he left with Army with a contempt for military games of all kinds, and at that time all the best scientists made weapons, so instead he became a pharmacist. He opened a pharmacy with a soda fountain, malted chocolate milkshakes and Kraft and Wonderbread grilled cheese sandwiches. This was before reduced fat cream. It was a place to play chess and discuss the neighborhood gossip, weddings and funerals, the Russians and the Kennedy's, and the stinking Phillies.
In the sixth inning, the Cardinals scored three runs on a single, an error, and an opposite-field home run. The Phillies pulled their starting pitcher, some new kid Solomon had never liked the look of. A. drank from a paper carton of orange juice and sighed, glancing at the monitor displaying Solomon's vitals, the numbers of his internal organs and blood sugars, glowing digits in the dark hospital room. A. cracked a window, an old superstition from when he used to watch games at his grandpa's lavender and yellow house in Audobon, New Jersey. Solomon owned a
A sweet kid named Henry who'd become a morphine addict begging Solomon to fill one more prescription. How about we just talk, Solomon offered. Henry told him fantastical stories. He had just returned from the Amazon rainforest, where he claimed to have uncovered an uncontacted tribe of cannibals. Who knew what was true. Drops of Henry's sweat kept falling onto Solomon's counter, and he wiped them surreptitiously. "They had been there for centuries, untouched by the outside world, and they kept making these comments about eating people. When it was time for dinner they rigged up a spit made of stone over a fire pit, and I swear, I thought that was it for me." Solomon was amazed by the stories his customers at the pharmacy. After Henry left the pharmacy, Solomon sat behind the counter, rearranging chewing gum displays and wondering whether work was all there was time for in a life. The next day he met J., at the opera, and his life changed forever.
Solomon often joked that running a pharmacy was nothing compared to raising two teenage girls, but he wouldn't have had it any other way. Technically, Solomon had no blood relation to A. or his mother, J.'s daughter. If you saw a pup on the side of the road, does it matter whether you shared its blood? Being a father revealed to Solomon that life had further horizons. Deep inside his comatose dream he wished he could tell this to A.: there was always a further horizon. It's easy to forget that when one is very young or very old: things might be a certain way now, but they will not be so for long, and this is one of life's great comforts.
"Can anyone tell me what the observable universe is?" Solomon's physics teacher asked. A strong handsome boy raised his right hand. "The limit of how far we can see into space." The teacher nodded. "Correct. It's part of the universe that we can see from Earth. The edge of this part is often called the horizon point. It's like the end of the sea when you look at the ocean, the place where the earth's curve becomes material. Estimated around 93 billion light-years in diameter. But the key word here is 'observable.' Just because we can't see beyond that limit, doesn't mean that there isn't anything out there. In fact, there's most likely an infinite amount of space and matter beyond that point." The boy again raised his hand. "Why can't we see past the observable universe? Maybe we can't now. But surely we could, if we found a new way." The teacher was pleased with the question. "Even hypothetically, seeing beyond the horizon point is not possible under the laws of physics. It is a definitional truth. The light from the farthest reaches of the universe hasn't had enough time to reach us yet. The universe is expanding at a rate that's faster than the speed of light, meaning that the light from objects beyond the observable universe is moving away from us so fast that it will never reach us, even an infinite time in the future. Every second more and more of the existing world disappears forever.” Solomon hadn't thought about the size of the universe in his coma. Now that he did he had his first regretful and desperate moments. He had been a decent man, but was he a presence in history? He could hardly remember living in a significant time. He was named after a King, the King of Israel, and he would die in an overpriced hospital room with his wife and grandson asleep in the chair next to him.
In the top of the 9th the Phillies mounted a rally. A. had taken his hat and placed it on Solomon's head, inside-out and backward, another old superstititon. He wasn't asleep and hadn't slept since arriving in town on the redeye from Los Angeles. He went to Dodgers games in his grandfather's Phillies t-shirt. He sometimes spent weeks without seeing anyone at all. His grandfather had called him Ace, and he was his most dedicated reader, sharing and responding to every piece, no matter how insignificant. First and third with one out, down by two. Cautiously pessimistic, the doctors had said. He isn't in any pain. This is how he'd want it to happen. The family has clarity in decision making, you've done everything right. Solomon was not a fighter persay but he had fought when it mattered, but he knew that some fights were futile. The catcher stepped up to the plate, one of the Phillies' worst hitters but a guy with heart, a guy who could get the bat on the ball even if it wasn't pretty.
Solomon's grandson watched him carefully, a hint of envy in his eyes. "I wish I could have had your simple life, Grandpa," he said.
Solomon lay in his electronic cot, the sound of his nasal breaths filling the still white room. Solomon was not a believer in the big man in the sky nor Freud, but he was a believer in memory. Any other Tuesday Solomon would be sitting in a rocking chair on the small balcony of the one-room retirement-home dorm where he lived with J., his sunflower, the gal that saved him from loneliness long past when he wanted to be alone. The sun was rising over that balcony, showering the playing fields and strip malls and office parks visible from Solomon's chair. In the last few months, as his body lost its ability to fight, he stopped reading the paper and doing the crossword, and J. said that's how she knew he was done with it, he'd reached the end of his endurance, since it took a screaming child or a Phillies game to tear him away from that newspaper. He'd just sit and rock and feel the light wind and the smell of cut grass and gasoline from the parking lot and try to remember what it had been like to be a young man like his grandson A. who, though Solomon didn't know it, was sitting right there in the hospital next to him with his hand on the cot's plastic handrail watching the Phillies take on the St. Louis Cardinals on the mounted television.
Memories came in flashes of light and terror, like the second a fastball comes into view, a still frame in a movie, a moment of reprieve from the aches and pains.
1944. 10 years of age. Peter Rouse tells Solomon in front of their 5th-grade art class that he was sorry about the Holocaust, but what he couldn't understand is why the Jews didn't fight back.
His father playing chess against himself at their makeshift dining table after telling his mother that once again he'd been passed over for promotions by people he trained as a wholesaler at General Mills. They needed him to sell to the Jewish stores but they wouldn't promote him because he was Jewish. This is what you call a stalemate, he said, pushing a pawn forward into a locked position. His father liked to say he immigrated from Ukraine because he was tired of history, and America was where history went to disappear, like the crow in the wintertime in that old fable.
In the top of the third, the Phillies abandoned a man on 3rd to keep the game scoreless. A. groaned, giving Solomon a knowing look. There was a small tear in the corner of Solomon's eye, and it made A.'s eye water. A. looked at the blood in a small vial protruding from a vein in Solomon's arm. A. was 24 and lost, single and behind on rent and failing as a sportswriter. He had forgot to send Solomon his latest article because he was ashamed, it was in a digital tabloid and discussed the rumors of a certain NBA star photographed in a limo with a certain skincare influencer.
The U.S. Army. Seven years after the liberation of Auschwitz and the nuclear attack on Hiroshima. He was not a fighter in school, and after the patriotic indignities of basic training he became a clerk and a medic. At nineteen years old he was sent to West Germany during the height of the Cold War. When people asked him about the war he said it was boring.
Solomon wasn't traumatized by the war, but he left with Army with a contempt for military games of all kinds, and at that time all the best scientists made weapons, so instead he became a pharmacist. He opened a pharmacy with a soda fountain, malted chocolate milkshakes and Kraft and Wonderbread grilled cheese sandwiches. This was before reduced fat cream. It was a place to play chess and discuss the neighborhood gossip, weddings and funerals, the Russians and the Kennedy's, and the stinking Phillies.
In the sixth inning, the Cardinals scored three runs on a single, an error, and an opposite-field home run. The Phillies pulled their starting pitcher, some new kid Solomon had never liked the look of. A. drank from a paper carton of orange juice and sighed, glancing at the monitor displaying Solomon's vitals, the numbers of his internal organs and blood sugars, glowing digits in the dark hospital room. A. cracked a window, an old superstition from when he used to watch games at his grandpa's lavender and yellow house in Audobon, New Jersey. Solomon owned a
A sweet kid named Henry who'd become a morphine addict begging Solomon to fill one more prescription. How about we just talk, Solomon offered. Henry told him fantastical stories. He had just returned from the Amazon rainforest, where he claimed to have uncovered an uncontacted tribe of cannibals. Who knew what was true. Drops of Henry's sweat kept falling onto Solomon's counter, and he wiped them surreptitiously. "They had been there for centuries, untouched by the outside world, and they kept making these comments about eating people. When it was time for dinner they rigged up a spit made of stone over a fire pit, and I swear, I thought that was it for me." Solomon was amazed by the stories his customers at the pharmacy. After Henry left the pharmacy, Solomon sat behind the counter, rearranging chewing gum displays and wondering whether work was all there was time for in a life. The next day he met J., at the opera, and his life changed forever.
Solomon often joked that running a pharmacy was nothing compared to raising two teenage girls, but he wouldn't have had it any other way. Technically, Solomon had no blood relation to A. or his mother, J.'s daughter. If you saw a pup on the side of the road, does it matter whether you shared its blood? Being a father revealed to Solomon that life had further horizons. Deep inside his comatose dream he wished he could tell this to A.: there was always a further horizon. It's easy to forget that when one is very young or very old: things might be a certain way now, but they will not be so for long, and this is one of life's great comforts.
"Can anyone tell me what the observable universe is?" Solomon's physics teacher asked. A strong handsome boy raised his right hand. "The limit of how far we can see into space." The teacher nodded. "Correct. It's part of the universe that we can see from Earth. The edge of this part is often called the horizon point. It's like the end of the sea when you look at the ocean, the place where the earth's curve becomes material. Estimated around 93 billion light-years in diameter. But the key word here is 'observable.' Just because we can't see beyond that limit, doesn't mean that there isn't anything out there. In fact, there's most likely an infinite amount of space and matter beyond that point." The boy again raised his hand. "Why can't we see past the observable universe? Maybe we can't now. But surely we could, if we found a new way." The teacher was pleased with the question. "Even hypothetically, seeing beyond the horizon point is not possible under the laws of physics. It is a definitional truth. The light from the farthest reaches of the universe hasn't had enough time to reach us yet. The universe is expanding at a rate that's faster than the speed of light, meaning that the light from objects beyond the observable universe is moving away from us so fast that it will never reach us, even an infinite time in the future. Every second more and more of the existing world disappears forever.” Solomon hadn't thought about the size of the universe in his coma. Now that he did he had his first regretful and desperate moments. He had been a decent man, but was he a presence in history? He could hardly remember living in a significant time. He was named after a King, the King of Israel, and he would die in an overpriced hospital room with his wife and grandson asleep in the chair next to him.
In the top of the 9th the Phillies mounted a rally. A. had taken his hat and placed it on Solomon's head, inside-out and backward, another old superstititon. He wasn't asleep and hadn't slept since arriving in town on the redeye from Los Angeles. He went to Dodgers games in his grandfather's Phillies t-shirt. He sometimes spent weeks without seeing anyone at all. His grandfather had called him Ace, and he was his most dedicated reader, sharing and responding to every piece, no matter how insignificant. First and third with one out, down by two. Cautiously pessimistic, the doctors had said. He isn't in any pain. This is how he'd want it to happen. The family has clarity in decision making, you've done everything right. Solomon was not a fighter persay but he had fought when it mattered, but he knew that some fights were futile. The catcher stepped up to the plate, one of the Phillies' worst hitters but a guy with heart, a guy who could get the bat on the ball even if it wasn't pretty.
Solomon's grandson watched him carefully, a hint of envy in his eyes. "I wish I could have had your simple life, Grandpa," he said.
Solomon lay in his electronic cot, the sound of his nasal breaths filling the still white room. Solomon was not a believer in the big man in the sky nor Freud, but he was a believer in memory. Any other Tuesday Solomon would be sitting in a rocking chair on the small balcony of the one-room retirement-home dorm where he lived with J., his sunflower, the gal that saved him from loneliness long past when he wanted to be alone. The sun was rising over that balcony, showering the playing fields and strip malls and office parks visible from Solomon's chair. In the last few months, as his body lost its ability to fight, he stopped reading the paper and doing the crossword, and J. said that's how she knew he was done with it, he'd reached the end of his endurance, since it took a screaming child or a Phillies game to tear him away from that newspaper. He'd just sit and rock and feel the light wind and the smell of cut grass and gasoline from the parking lot and try to remember what it had been like to be a young man like his grandson A. who, though Solomon didn't know it, was sitting right there in the hospital next to him with his hand on the cot's plastic handrail watching the Phillies take on the St. Louis Cardinals on the mounted television.
Memories came in flashes of light and terror, like the second a fastball comes into view, a still frame in a movie, a moment of reprieve from the aches and pains.
1944. 10 years of age. Peter Rouse tells Solomon in front of their 5th-grade art class that he was sorry about the Holocaust, but what he couldn't understand is why the Jews didn't fight back.
His father playing chess against himself at their makeshift dining table after telling his mother that once again he'd been passed over for promotions by people he trained as a wholesaler at General Mills. They needed him to sell to the Jewish stores but they wouldn't promote him because he was Jewish. This is what you call a stalemate, he said, pushing a pawn forward into a locked position. His father liked to say he immigrated from Ukraine because he was tired of history, and America was where history went to disappear, like the crow in the wintertime in that old fable.
In the top of the third, the Phillies abandoned a man on 3rd to keep the game scoreless. A. groaned, giving Solomon a knowing look. There was a small tear in the corner of Solomon's eye, and it made A.'s eye water. A. looked at the blood in a small vial protruding from a vein in Solomon's arm. A. was 24 and lost, single and behind on rent and failing as a sportswriter. He had forgot to send Solomon his latest article because he was ashamed, it was in a digital tabloid and discussed the rumors of a certain NBA star photographed in a limo with a certain skincare influencer.
The U.S. Army. Seven years after the liberation of Auschwitz and the nuclear attack on Hiroshima. He was not a fighter in school, and after the patriotic indignities of basic training he became a clerk and a medic. At nineteen years old he was sent to West Germany during the height of the Cold War. When people asked him about the war he said it was boring.
Solomon wasn't traumatized by the war, but he left with Army with a contempt for military games of all kinds, and at that time all the best scientists made weapons, so instead he became a pharmacist. He opened a pharmacy with a soda fountain, malted chocolate milkshakes and Kraft and Wonderbread grilled cheese sandwiches. This was before reduced fat cream. It was a place to play chess and discuss the neighborhood gossip, weddings and funerals, the Russians and the Kennedy's, and the stinking Phillies.
In the sixth inning, the Cardinals scored three runs on a single, an error, and an opposite-field home run. The Phillies pulled their starting pitcher, some new kid Solomon had never liked the look of. A. drank from a paper carton of orange juice and sighed, glancing at the monitor displaying Solomon's vitals, the numbers of his internal organs and blood sugars, glowing digits in the dark hospital room. A. cracked a window, an old superstition from when he used to watch games at his grandpa's lavender and yellow house in Audobon, New Jersey. Solomon owned a
A sweet kid named Henry who'd become a morphine addict begging Solomon to fill one more prescription. How about we just talk, Solomon offered. Henry told him fantastical stories. He had just returned from the Amazon rainforest, where he claimed to have uncovered an uncontacted tribe of cannibals. Who knew what was true. Drops of Henry's sweat kept falling onto Solomon's counter, and he wiped them surreptitiously. "They had been there for centuries, untouched by the outside world, and they kept making these comments about eating people. When it was time for dinner they rigged up a spit made of stone over a fire pit, and I swear, I thought that was it for me." Solomon was amazed by the stories his customers at the pharmacy. After Henry left the pharmacy, Solomon sat behind the counter, rearranging chewing gum displays and wondering whether work was all there was time for in a life. The next day he met J., at the opera, and his life changed forever.
Solomon often joked that running a pharmacy was nothing compared to raising two teenage girls, but he wouldn't have had it any other way. Technically, Solomon had no blood relation to A. or his mother, J.'s daughter. If you saw a pup on the side of the road, does it matter whether you shared its blood? Being a father revealed to Solomon that life had further horizons. Deep inside his comatose dream he wished he could tell this to A.: there was always a further horizon. It's easy to forget that when one is very young or very old: things might be a certain way now, but they will not be so for long, and this is one of life's great comforts.
"Can anyone tell me what the observable universe is?" Solomon's physics teacher asked. A strong handsome boy raised his right hand. "The limit of how far we can see into space." The teacher nodded. "Correct. It's part of the universe that we can see from Earth. The edge of this part is often called the horizon point. It's like the end of the sea when you look at the ocean, the place where the earth's curve becomes material. Estimated around 93 billion light-years in diameter. But the key word here is 'observable.' Just because we can't see beyond that limit, doesn't mean that there isn't anything out there. In fact, there's most likely an infinite amount of space and matter beyond that point." The boy again raised his hand. "Why can't we see past the observable universe? Maybe we can't now. But surely we could, if we found a new way." The teacher was pleased with the question. "Even hypothetically, seeing beyond the horizon point is not possible under the laws of physics. It is a definitional truth. The light from the farthest reaches of the universe hasn't had enough time to reach us yet. The universe is expanding at a rate that's faster than the speed of light, meaning that the light from objects beyond the observable universe is moving away from us so fast that it will never reach us, even an infinite time in the future. Every second more and more of the existing world disappears forever.” Solomon hadn't thought about the size of the universe in his coma. Now that he did he had his first regretful and desperate moments. He had been a decent man, but was he a presence in history? He could hardly remember living in a significant time. He was named after a King, the King of Israel, and he would die in an overpriced hospital room with his wife and grandson asleep in the chair next to him.
In the top of the 9th the Phillies mounted a rally. A. had taken his hat and placed it on Solomon's head, inside-out and backward, another old superstititon. He wasn't asleep and hadn't slept since arriving in town on the redeye from Los Angeles. He went to Dodgers games in his grandfather's Phillies t-shirt. He sometimes spent weeks without seeing anyone at all. His grandfather had called him Ace, and he was his most dedicated reader, sharing and responding to every piece, no matter how insignificant. First and third with one out, down by two. Cautiously pessimistic, the doctors had said. He isn't in any pain. This is how he'd want it to happen. The family has clarity in decision making, you've done everything right. Solomon was not a fighter persay but he had fought when it mattered, but he knew that some fights were futile. The catcher stepped up to the plate, one of the Phillies' worst hitters but a guy with heart, a guy who could get the bat on the ball even if it wasn't pretty.
Solomon's grandson watched him carefully, a hint of envy in his eyes. "I wish I could have had your simple life, Grandpa," he said.
Solomon lay in his bed, his breathing shallow and his body weak. The memories of his past played like a movie in his mind, as he watched his life unfold before him. He thought about his younger years, when he was just a boy living in Philadelphia with his Ukrainian immigrant parents.
As a Jewish family living in the city, they faced discrimination and anti-Semitic remarks, and the outbreak of World War II only made things worse. Solomon remembered the day when they were forced to flee their home and leave everything behind, but he also remembered the bravery and kindness of those who helped them escape.
After the war ended, Solomon joined the US army and was stationed in West Germany during the height of the Cold War. He carried out his duties with honor and distinction, but the memories of the war and his family's suffering always lingered in the back of his mind.
Upon returning home, Solomon settled down and became a pharmacist, opening up his own store. He loved being able to help people, to give them the medication that they needed to make them feel better. But his pharmacy wasn't just a place to pick up prescriptions, it was a gathering spot for the community, where people could catch up on the latest news and share a drink at the soda fountain.
It was there that he met the love of his life, Judith, and they went on to adopt two daughters. Solomon often joked that running a pharmacy was nothing compared to raising two teenage girls, but he wouldn't have had it any other way.
Now in his old age, Solomon had grandchildren to love and cherish. But as he lay on his deathbed, surrounded by his family, he knew that his time was running out. He looked at his grandchildren and thought about how different their lives were from his own.
But he also knew that they would never truly understand the richness of his memories, and that was okay. For as long as Solomon could remember, he had lived with one powerful truth: life was a precious gift, and he was grateful for every moment of it.
He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of his family's love surrounding him. He was happy to have lived through the good times and the bad, to have loved and been loved, and to have made a difference in people's lives. And with that thought, Solomon took his last breath, at peace with the life he had lived.
Solomon lay in his bed, the sound of his shallow breaths filling the quiet room. Memories of his past danced like a movie in his mind, each scene bringing to life the experiences that had shaped him.
Before the days of his illness, Solomon would often sit upon his front porch in a timeless rocking chair, trying to catch the sun rise over his neighborhood. It was a moment that brought peace to the chaos of normal life. Inhaling the crisp morning air, filled with its dew and a hint of rain, Solomon's mind would journey back to his youth. He would recall the hours spent with his Ukrainian immigrant parents in the bustling city of Philadelphia. During those days, youth, and smiles were abundant, and the worries of the future rarely crossed their minds.
Is there anything else you would like me to help you with?
Solomon was grateful for the life he had lived, for the memories that would stay with him forever. His daughters were sitting by his bedside, holding his fragile hand as they whispered words of love and comfort. He was grateful for their presence, and he knew that they would carry on his legacy long after he was gone. Solomon thought about Judith and how much he wished she were there with him in his final moments. But he took comfort in knowing that she was waiting for him on the other side, ready to welcome him into their eternal home. With a sense of peace and contentment, Solomon closed his eyes, exhaling his final breath and surrendering to the embrace of death.
If someone were to ask Solomon the meaning of life, he would smile and say that life itself was the answer. He would explain that life is a precious gift, and that it is up to each individual to live it to the fullest, to love and be loved, to pursue their passions, and to make a difference in the world, no matter how big or small. Solomon would emphasize that happiness, kindness, and compassion were the cornerstones of a life well-lived, and that even in the darkest of times, one can find joy and purpose. He would say that every moment is a chance to learn, to grow, and to connect with others, and that the journey is what makes life truly meaningful.
After the war ended, Solomon decided to join the United States Army, and he was soon stationed in West Germany during the height of the Cold War. He took his duties very seriously and did his best to uphold the values of the US Army. As he patrolled the streets and monitored movements, he couldn't help but worry about the state of the world, how it had been engulfed by war and hatred.
Upon returning home, Solomon yearned for a simpler life, one that focused on helping others. He settled down and became a pharmacist, opening up his own store on a bustling street corner. It was a modest establishment filled with rows and rows of medicinal bottles and shelves stacked high with different types of pills. Solomon loved being able to help people, to give them the medication that they needed to make them feel better. There was nothing better than the smile of a customer who had just received the proper treatment for their ailment.
The pharmacy, however, wasn't just a place for filling prescriptions. It was a special hub for the community, where locals would come together to connect with each other while sipping on chocolate milkshakes and indulging in grilled cheese sandwiches. It was a place to play chess and discuss the changing neighborhood, the Russians, the Americans, and their beloved Philadelphia Phillies. The soda fountain at the pharmacy became the hub of the community, a place where old friends could reminisce and make new friends.
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As Peter's words echoed through the room, Solomon felt a sudden surge of anger and frustration. He couldn't believe that someone could be so ignorant and insensitive. He knew firsthand the horrors that his people had endured during the Holocaust, and he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of sadness and despair.
Solomon took a deep breath, addressing Peter with a calm but firm tone. "It's not that simple, Peter. The Jews were outnumbered, outgunned, and facing an enemy that sought to exterminate them. They were rounded up, separated from their families, and sent to concentration camps where they were stripped of their dignity and their lives. Many did resist, but they were often met with brutal and deadly force. The truth is, the Jews fought to survive every single day, and many did not make it."
Peter looked chastened, his face red with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I didn't know," he mumbled.
Solomon nodded, accepting Peter's apology. He knew that it wasn't his responsibility to educate every person who held such misguided views, but he couldn't let Peter's words go unanswered. He hoped that by speaking up, he had helped to shed some light on the reality of the Holocaust, and that others would come to see the truth as well.
One bright and sunny day at the pharmacy, a customer named Henry entered the store, his face contorted with excitement. Henry was known around town as an eccentric man who had lived an adventurous life filled with twists and turns. He had just returned from a long and exciting trip to the Amazon rainforest, where he claimed to have uncovered a secret that could change the way people thought about the world.
Henry approached Solomon, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Solomon, I have a story to tell you that will rock your world," he said in a hushed voice.
Solomon was intrigued, and he motioned for Henry to continue.
"As you know, I've spent my life traveling the world and seeking out new experiences," Henry began. "But my latest journey to the Amazon was unlike anything I've ever encountered. You see, I was part of a team of archaeologists that stumbled upon an ancient civilization hidden deep in the jungle. They had been there for centuries, untouched by the outside world."
Solomon leaned forward, fascinated by Henry's story. "Go on," he said.
"As we explored the ruins, we found evidence of a long-lost technology," Henry continued. "It was a device that could harness the power of the sun and use it to create energy. It was revolutionary, and it had the potential to change everything we know about power generation."
Solomon listened with keen interest, nodding as Henry spoke. He was amazed by the stories that his customers brought to him every day at the pharmacy, and he loved how everyone had a unique experience to share.
After Henry left the pharmacy, Solomon sat behind the counter, lost in thought. He couldn't help but marvel at the incredible stories that the world held, and how each person had a role to play in making the world a better place. For Solomon, that was the beauty of life, the discovery of new ideas and experiences, and the sharing of them with the people around him.
At the local observatory, a world-renowned astronomer was giving a lecture tour to a group of eager students. As the sun began to set, the sky turned a deep shade of blue, and the stars started to twinkle overhead. The astronomer stood at the front of the lecture hall, gesturing towards the night sky with enthusiasm.
"Can anyone tell me what the observable universe is?" The astronomer asked, a smile crossing their face.
A young student raised their hand, eager to answer the question. "It's the limit of how far we can see into space, right?"
The astronomer nodded. "Correct. The observable universe is the part of the universe that we can see from Earth. It's estimated to be around 93 billion light-years in diameter."
The students gasped in awe, staring up at the vast expanse of stars above them. The astronomer continued, "But the key word here is 'observable.' Just because we can't see beyond that limit, doesn't mean that there isn't anything out there. In fact, there's most likely an infinite amount of space and matter beyond that point."
Another student raised their hand. "Why can't we see past the observable universe?"
The astronomer was pleased with the question and launched into a detailed answer. "The light form the farthest reaches of the universe hasn't had enough time to reach us yet. The universe is expanding at a rate that's faster than the speed of light, meaning that the light from objects beyond the observable universe is moving away from us so fast that it will never reach us.”
The students listened intently as the astronomer continued explaining the wonders of the universe. Even though they couldn't observe everything, the simple idea that more was out there was awe-inspiring. In that moment, they felt both small and a part