Lured by the siren songs of far-flung lands, of
sexual liberation, and of equality, I travelled to my grandma's home,
an uninvited guest. My uncle, whose name now we could not pronounce,
was there. We strolled the windswept promenade of Beer-Sheba, kicking
some skeletal branches as we talked. He treated me as an adult.
Then it was time to return. My father, aware of my encounter, regarded
it as treason, another broken link in the crumbling chain of his
existence. To him, I was a co-conspirator. I shamed him publicly. He
felt humiliated in his own abode. He didn't say a thing, but not long
after, he signed me over to the army as a minor. My mother tremblingly
co-signed and mutely pleaded with my father to recant.
But he would not. Immersed in hurt, he just imploded, blankly staring
at the television screen. He took to leaping anxiously with every phone
ring, instructing us in panic to respond. He didn't want to talk to
anyone, he promised.
When I enlisted, he accompanied me to the draft board. Evading any
contact, he occupied a tiny, torturous wooden stool. He didn't budge
for hours and didn't say a word and didn't kiss farewell, departing
with a mere "goodbye". I watched him from the bus' window as he
receded, stooped, into a public park.
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