Needless to say that the last thing I wanted—that I’d ever want—is to make you sad.
I watched you then, when you were born, and my heart swelled.
I thought about my mom, of course.
But I only thought about how happy she would have been with you.
And that very moment, I vowed never to talk to you about this until you turned nine. As you’ve heard from Grandpa, that was my age when I lost my mom.
For a brief moment she took her eyes off the road.
Glanced at me.
And as if to sweeten a bitter pill, she asked me to take out the small bag of candy from her purse and treat us both to one.
She sucked.
Took a deep breath.
And with a mouth that was no longer dry, Mom—who in any state of mind devotes herself to her work in the garden—spoke nostalgically of the “deep-rooted evergreen oak,” in the shade of which she took shelter as a child: “A tree that is considered immortal,” she explained to me, “even the strongest wind can’t overpower, both because of its thick trunk and its branches that create a round treetop, resistant to pests.”
For a brief moment she studied my expression.
And stared straight ahead again.
Focused on the road, with reserved emotion she described her mother as a loving, interested, involved, attentive, understanding and non-judgmental mother, with a sense of humor and great resourcefulness. A woman who was her best friend, and her husband’s best friend. A beautiful, warmhearted, wise, kind, intelligent, gentle and talented woman. Creative, especially at interpersonal relations. Industrious and successful, at work as well. Even with her placating nature, she knew exactly when to stand her ground. She had a refined taste in culture and loved music, especially the guitar. A healthy woman, who, as far as she can remember, never even got the flu, who presided over the family with amicability, openness, sensitivity and joie de vivre.
Everything flowed peacefully.
Always smooth sailing.
And then, one day, on her way back from work, she didn’t feel well.
She threw up.
And the moment she arrived home, she asked her to call Grandpa.
Grandpa arrived right away.
Following him—the ambulance.
Nine days he spent with her at the hospital.
And every morning a note waited for her on the pillow:
Good morning Talinka,
I arrived late.
And you were already asleep.
Sara’le (“my nanny when I was little,” Mom explained to me) will arrive at seven to take you to school.
Mom’s condition is improving.
Slowly, but surely.
Just a little more patience.
I will send her your regards today as well,
I will kiss her for you,
I will wish her a swift recovery on your behalf,
And I will tell her you miss her and await her return.
On the ninth evening he returned early.
Under his arm was a small bundle.
He stood at the threshold as if he didn’t know what to do with it.
Eventually he took the bundle into the bedroom.
Went out to the car again.
And returned with the gramophone and records.
When he put them down, she noticed her mother’s watch, which looked funny on his hairy wrist.
With a heartbreaking look he asked Sara’le the nanny to stay and prepare dinner for her.
And even when she left, he uttered not a single word:
“He didn’t have the heart to.
Nor could he find the words.”
Before bedtime, as if collecting himself:
There was no way to make it easier…
Telling her what he had to tell her.
Mom loved her to no end.
Infinitely.
There was no one Mom loved as much as her.
And there was no one who made her as happy as she did.
Mom had whom to live for.
She had what to live for.
She was very sick…
More than he imagined…
And she sank…
Into… a deep sleep.
But… it wasn’t sleep.
It was a deep coma…
A coma…
He believed
He was convinced
That she would wake up.
And that once she woke up
She would return to herself.
He did not lose hope for a moment.
There were also signs
Somewhat encouraging.
With a voice as if from the grave he mumbled:
This morning…
There was…
A deterioration…
What happened, happened…
Mom didn’t wake up…
And Mom won’t wake up…
Ever…
Mom is gone.
Mom is dead.
Passed away.
Mom will no longer be with us:
Not today.
And not tomorrow.
And not ever.
But she will always, always…
Stay with us:
In our hearts.
In our memories.
And occasionally—in our dreams.
It was someone else’s mother he spoke about:
Her mother
Has a headache.
Nausea.
Vomiting.
And that passes.
Her mother was not in a deep coma.
If she was, he wouldn’t have sent her regards and get well wishes from her.
Her mother would soon recover, just as he had written her.
Return home.
And everything would go back to being as it was.
Her father didn’t take back his words.
And the despondency.
The horrible pallor.
And the depths of sadness in his eyes.
Slowly slowly, bit by bit, something began to seep in.
“And even when the lightening cleft the core of the oak. Burned the dark green off. And shed the splendor of its catkin blossoms, it took me years…
Many years…
Until I started to internalize the finiteness…”
Now, as before, I cannot imagine a book-lover like Grandpa, lying in bed day and night like an “unwanted object.”
And what did Mom gather from this?
That for her he finds no reason to get out of bed in the morning.
And as her mother used to say: “That is a feeling she would not wish even upon the worst of her enemies.”
A horrible fear befell her…
That she would lose him too…
Over time—with extreme effort—he began to get up when she did.
Send her off to school.
And the moment the door slammed shut behind her, he would return to bed, as she discovered one morning, when she came back to retrieve a notebook.
The bed was a magnet:
There she would find him upon her return as well.
Unbathed.
And unshaven.
Eating—he was unable to.
And from one day to the next he became thinner and thinner.
With time, the bed began to lose its gravitational force.
Even though he struggled with it anew each morning.
And his efforts were not always met with the same measure of success…
More than a month passed, until one day she returned from school.
And found him dressed.
And his beard shaved.
He cleaned and tidied the apartment as well.
Even the bed was not disheveled.
After a while, he crossed the threshold for the first time.
And went to get his hair cut.
At first he visited only nearby shops.
And gradually expanded his radius.
Food—he bought prepared.
Once he
cooked us our first meal, he returned to work.
Nothing went back to being as it was.
But from then on, her father was always at her side:
In any matter, big or small.
The grief did not fade.
Grief has no expiration date.
Each of us buried it deep inside.
As though it was his very own private “little temple.”
It exists.
It lives.
It breathes.
The twinge in the heart becomes an inseparable part of you.
You learn to live with it.
And to move on.
Forward.
The loneliness didn’t go away, either.
Nor did the longing—
Not his.
And not mine.
On the contrary, they, too, became permanent companions.
“Elliek.” She, my green-thumbed mother, whispered my pet name with an introverted softness, which has since become reserved for special occasions, “despite the lightning that struck it and burned it nearly to its roots. And despite the downpour that followed and flooded it—the evergreen oak didn’t become a bare tombstone. What spared it was the fertile soil, the deep roots it struck, the pure water, the thoroughly arable land, and the fine nutrients it managed to accumulate over nine years, which in hindsight are nothing but the blink of an eye.
And when the tissues of the xylem started growing back and the phloem bloomed once again, the blossoms encompassed the scars and covered them, until they were barely discernable.”
Her gaze was “lost in the distance,” as I imagine the gaze of the Little Prince when he decided to disappear.
“Elliek, this is a lot to take in.
I can only hope that I didn’t make you sadder than candor necessitates.”
Once again she took a deep breath.
And after a long pause, Mom, who like the Little Prince never forgets a question once she asks it, returned for the umpteenth time to the question she had posed about Grandpa. Only this time she was convinced that it was superfluous for her to explain to me why, after the previous night’s conversation in the kitchen, she was so alarmed about what would happen, which is exactly what did happen, that she couldn’t sleep a wink all night.
Even now, from a distance of time and place, containing it—consumes all my mental strength.
And I need a respite.
“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly.
What is essential is invisible to the eye.
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly.
What is essential is invisible to the eye.
See rightly…
Invisible to the eye …
It is only with the heart that one can see…
It is only with the heart that one can …
It is only with the heart …
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly.
What is essential is invisible to the eye.
What is essential…
What is essential…
Essential…
Invisible to the eye…
Invisible…
Invisible…
Only with the heart…
What is essential is invisible…
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly.
What is essential is invisible to the eye.”
Countless variations play inside me.
And I laugh deep inside at the thought that one of the most meaningful sayings, if not the most meaningful in ‘The Little Prince’—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry chose to put in the mouth of the fox, of all characters.
And I leave the fox to his guile.
And return to Champion, who had become restless from the busy traffic, which he was not used to, on Namir Road close to HaKirya military base, as we drove into the city of Tel-Aviv.
I reached back.
And petted him until he calmed down.
“So that’s what Grandpa meant by ‘once bitten, twice shy’?”
I asked to make sure.
“Literally speaking, it feels more like a burn than a bite. Like anesthetized tissue,” she replied and nodded.
And hesitantly asked me to tell her “in all honesty”:
What does separation mean to me?
“Simple: it’s just like with the puppies that are going to leave us. And in their new homes they’ll be just as happy as they are in ours.”
Mom let out a sigh of relief.
And laughed a glowing laughter, as I had never heard her laugh before.
“And what does it mean to you?”
I insisted on knowing.
“To me…
To me…
For my part…
And likely for Grandpa’s as well…”
As if searching for the right tone.
And once she found it, she did not hold back: The moment the decision was made to find new homes for the pups, they’re gone.
And she misses them.
She would have wanted to pet them.
And can’t.
“And you could rightfully ask me:
Why?
For one very simple reason: For me, and most likely for Grandpa as well, they were here and now they’re gone.”
I, who find this too complicated even today, wondered:
“If that’s the case, then why do you keep parking on the street and carrying bags and get soaking wet instead of just parking in the garage?
You do it because you know as well as I do that the puppies are running around in there!”
I answered my own question.
“I know that here,”
She tapped a finger against her temple.
“But not here,”
She pounded on her chest.
I didn’t understand a thing.
“Imagine that you’re at the amusement park,” she said, laughing. “And you’re trying to scratch the tip of your nose by its reflection in a distorting mirror.”
That didn’t help, either.
“There’s an external reality, and an internal one,” she tried again:
“There’s a practical reality, and an emotional one.”
I understood only one thing:
That out of fear, she’s separating for no reason.
For no reason at all.
“Not exactly: you fear something defined.
In my case, and I’m positive that in Grandpa’s case as well, I’d say one thing:
For some people the cure takes precedence over the blow, and for some, like me, for instance, the blow takes precedence over the cure.”
“So what about the pups in the meantime?”
I lost hope of understanding.
“In the meantime—the between time—that’s all I’m capable of.”
She smiled despondently:
“Practically, the pups are here. And I take care of their food and the rest of their needs. Emotionally, they’re long gone.”
* * *
If not for the barks of joy, I wouldn’t have noticed that she had parked.
Mom opened the door for him.
Champion leaped out.
Next to the lamppost he raised a leg.
And still dripping, he rushed to push on the iron gate, which swung squeakily on its hinge.
With a perked tail he raced along the path.
Pushed the latticed glass door.
And I followed him into the tall and narrow entrance hall, which was flooded with a blanching neon light even during the day.
Wagging, he ran forward.
And returned with his tail between his legs.
Clung to my left.
And in a hesitant “heel” he once again crossed the painted tiles.
At the front of the staircase he paused.
Prostrated himself.
And the iron railing hummed from the loud volume of his barks and their frequency.
It was clear to me that one of the neighbors woul
d arrive any moment.
But it was a ghost house.
The barks left no doubt that he was caught between the physical proximity to Grandpa and an acute case of stair anxiety.
“It’s stronger than him.”
The vibrations in Mom’s voice were ominous.
Nothing helped.
With no other choice, I dragged him by the collar.
Once he made it across the first part of the staircase, he charged ahead like a terrified panther.
He stopped on Grandpa’s doorstep.
Breathless, Mom caught up with us:
“Tighten the collar, so he won’t knock Grandpa over, heaven forbid.” Before sticking the key into the lock she began giving orders:
“Wait until I sit him down!
Wait until I place Grandma’s trinkets on a high shelf, so he won’t fling them with his tail! And only then let him in!”
I hadn’t noticed that I was leaning against the doorbell.
And I didn’t understand who was ringing.
Grandpa waited on the other side of the door.
And opened.
With bristling fur, Champion growled oddly.
His tail stretched out and swayed like the pendulum of a metronome from one side to the other in measured beats.
A Dog’s Luck Page 12