When he was born, this lovely son of mine, when he was born, he did not cry. The nurse held him high in the air, there came to sound. "He does not cry!" I shouted "he does not cry!" They took him to intensive care, the smell of banana's still in the air, heavy disgusting.
There was no pulse, he did not breath, he was reanimated, it all went well. I added the name Life, Chaim, to the name his father gave him. As an omen of protection, to keep him safe, against death, against life. I took him to the park, we sat on a bench, cold spring day. So light he was in my arms, so light, lighter than his weight; I felt as if I held a ray of sunlight in my arms. Bright, weightless, kind, touching me lightly. He grew up. A nice kid. He plays soccer, he goes to school. He had the lightest touch. When I had migraine he laid his hand on my arm, and my headache eased. The fear for his life chocked me during all this years, a stone in my heart. With all my being I did not allow him to die. He mustn't. This is the only pain I refuse to suffer. I cannot lose him. I did not report him to the Israeli army. He should not be drafted. And then, years in time, we talked. He said: "I don't care if I die, not at all". I heard the truth in him. He really did not. I felt death with him. In him. As a possible possibility. I believed his words. No, he was not depressed. Yes, he enjoyed his life, but still - death was with him. A possible possibility. I understood, I must let him go his way. I must let him be free. I mustn't hold him. Not even to this life. |
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