We had a great time today. We built a palace, we built a
train, we built a beis hamikdosh. I was so proud to be
a part of the beis hamikdosh, even though I was right
at the bottom.
And then the mother told the children to put us away. They
grumbled a bit; they weren't too eager to obey, but in the
end they did as they were told. I sat there, a bit apart from
the rest, watching them disappear one by one in the big round
box . . .
And then suddenly, I was alone. Utterly alone. The white box
disappeared, taking all my friends away. I wanted to call
out: "Wait for me!" It's fun to be on the carpet when you're
building something with all your friends, but when you are
left there alone, it's kind of frightening.
The mother is rushing the children to bed. She doesn't see
me. They don't see me. They have forgotten all about us. I
watch them running around, changing into pyjamas, fighting,
laughing, crying. I watch them getting into bed. Then the
light goes off. I hear them saying shema Yisroel. The
mother sings to them and then she leaves. The children
whisper and giggle.
Then nothing. Darkness. Shadows. I long for my friends. I
didn't know I had a separate existence from them. I didn't
know I existed.
As the shadows settle in and cover the world, as the clock
ticks away the limited time of their dominion, I want to cry
out: Why me? Why me? But who can answer this question? Not
the clock, which only knows how to tick, not to talk. Nor the
other Legos packed away in the box. Not the children who are
dreaming of new palaces to build. Nor the mother who doesn't
want to hear about Legos until at least tomorrow morning.
Why me? I ask the darkness. But no one answers.
Tomorrow, if I am lucky, the mother might have time to clean
the floor. She will notice me. She will pick me up and put me
back into the big round box. And then I'll disappear again
among all the others.
Life will be as it was before, except that now I know that I
exist. To exist is to have been alone . . .
