So, I said I'll come along and found myself, one summer morning,
accompanying my aunt to the Kibbutz, a winding, dusty way. We switched
countless buses and sipped orange juice through straws and my aunt
tilted her wide-brimmed hat to expose a lock of greying hair. Her eyes
were moist. She said: "I am going to see my Uzi now. It's been so
long." The sun invaded her fedora, imprisoning her quavering lips
behind a beaming grid.
I wanted to enquire why did she send Uzi to the Kibbutz to start with
and tell her how I missed his smile, our games, the bucket loads of
water he would pour on me after we bathed in the nearby sea. But I
refrained because her eyes went metal when she mentioned him. She never
even mentioned Sima.
So, there we were, standing at the gate, she and I and our gear, all
packed in fading plastic bags at our feet, enshrouded by the black
vapour of the shimmering asphalt and the roaring and receding bus. My
aunt, contemplating the waning transport, grabbed my sweaty palm and
lifted the rustling shopping bags. A whiskered driver of a tractor
regarded us with curiosity, then guided us to our destination.
My aunt clenched a childish fist to tap the door, but left it hanging
in mid-air awhile.
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