One fine day, about 13 years ago, I was in a department store in Toronto -- Zellers, I believe -- buying various items in preparation for my then upcoming trip to Israel, the country to which I had decided to immigrate.
After about an hour, having picked out the items I had decided to purchase that day, I proceeded to the checkout area.
But just before I entered one of the checkout aisles, a 2- or 3-year-old black girl walked up to me. In her hand, a chocolate bar. Very much opened. And her mouth, and the surface area surrounding her mouth, and, in fact, much of the rest of her sweet little face, were all gloriously covered with chocolate. Her eyes were wide open, bearing silent but eloquent testimony to the kiddie-heaven experience she had clearly just enjoyed.
But the earnest expression on her face as she looked up at me and held the half-eaten chocolate bar in her hand up towards me indicated unambiguously that the moment of rapture was passing, and her thoughts had now turned to the far more pedestrian chore of disposing of the evidence.
What has always struck me about this moment was the way she approached me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to hand me that half-eaten gooey chocolate bar mess. It was as if, in her mind, all department stores employed several people such as myself, whose official job description it was to patrol the check-out area in search of little children who were wandering around with half-eaten chocolate bars that needed disposing of.
Without a word, I performed my assigned task, and gently took the proffered chocolate bar remains from her extended hand, disposed of them, purchased my items, and immigrated to Israel.
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