All lights were on, tarring the wiry tree in the garden with juddering
shadows. I sat in the corner, thinking about Sima, wondering if her
beauty survived her death. They said she had leukemia and vomited blood
incessantly. She died, awash with it, her pallid face depressed against
my grandpa's shoulder. I pondered if it was right to go on loving her.
I thought about Uzi, her brother and my cousin.
After the funeral, Uzi was sent to a Kibbutz, never to return, leaving
behind unfinished cowboy-and-Indian games on my grandmother's verandah.
There were so many things I had to tell him but he was gone.
A few months later, my aunt invited me to join her to visit the
Kibbutz. In her youth, she was a green-eyed, lithe beauty - cascading,
raven hair and my mother's cheekbones, but gentler. She divorced still
young and then Sima died on her and she found employment in Haifa, in a
hospice for the terminally ill.
She was a recluse, living in a tiny, viewless flat which she
compulsively scoured and polished. She spared her words and I was
deterred by these and other eccentricities. But I wanted to see Uzi
again and talk to him, as we used to. I imagined his full-cheeked
laughter and the sparkle in his eyes, under his curls.
Pages:
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113