Sunday, May 21, 2017

40 toward the Omer

Jenin-Ramallah-Jerusalem-Tel Aviv
hod shebyesod

Her mother says she would like to hear Havdalah and I make it. Why does it say who separates between Israel and the peoples? I talk about Yaakov, about commandments. None of us are satisfied.

Upstairs, I think: God separates but the word between comes to show us three: Between of holy and secular: chol hamoed; Light, dark: dawn; Shabbat, the six days of doing: bein hashmashot; Israel, the peoples: and I am not satisfied.

In the car as we wait for my friend and their brother to return the three of us return to the basics. Hajara, waraqa, maqas! Our hands bump, cover, snip. We laugh, satisfied, and play again, and again, and again.

I keep my open passport and visa flattened against the plastic as the young women in uniform peer and process. One eventually gives me a smile and two thumbs up. After the bus, I cross the line with my possessions.

Five years of turning the kaleidoscope. The jewel-toned pieces jumble into their final display over a Tel Aviv patio. They love each other, and it's beautiful. He rolls tobacco. I luxuriate in the hammock, and then it's time to leave.

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