God Will See

by Thaddeus Rutkowski

“Are you in a hurry?” a young Hasidic man asks
as I wait on my bicycle at an intersection
in South Williamsburg.
“Why?”  I ask.
“I want you to close a freezer door,” he says.
“It’s ringing and won’t stop.”
“Why can’t you shut it off ?”
“It’s the Sabbath.”

I follow him around the corner
to his apartment building.
“You know,” I say, “if I were you,
I’d just close the freezer door.  No one will see.”
“God will see.”
I take the elevator while he takes the stairs.

I walk into his apartment, past three children
playing a game on the floor in a clean, bare room.
The freezer door is open an inch; I push it shut.
“Do you want any food?” he asks.  “Any water?”
“No thanks,” I say.  “I have water.”
I walk out, get on my bike and ride toward the bridge.