My mother has started her dying. She is doing fine, still vital and busy as ever, but her back is bent lower, she has no appetite, she is losing weight and is she getting weaker and weaker.
All her married life, except a couple of years she lived with a boy friend, after my father died and both me and my brother has left home and the country we were born in, she lived in this apartment in Abas street in Haifa. In a way, this apartment, her kingdom, her cage, this street, where she knows nearly everybody, are she, are Mother for me. Starting the process of separation from her, is getting to know this apartment, this street again.
Getting to know her again, the person whom I should know better then every other person, whom I hate, and love, and feel disgusted from, and adore.
All her married life, except a couple of years she lived with a boy friend, after my father died and both me and my brother has left home and the country we were born in, she lived in this apartment in Abas street in Haifa. In a way, this apartment, her kingdom, her cage, this street, where she knows nearly everybody, are she, are Mother for me. Starting the process of separation from her, is getting to know this apartment, this street again.
Getting to know her again, the person whom I should know better then every other person, whom I hate, and love, and feel disgusted from, and adore.