My heart breaks yet again, as I witness what goes on. I know the signs of disbelief, of frustration that verges on anger. I know the sadness that can mold his body. There was a time when my words were all that he needed, but no longer. Now when we are together – special times. Tender and loving. We talk; he hears me, he comforts me, he loves me. He is not dismissive, but I know he is listening to another voice – a stronger, deeper, a beckoning inner voice. A loving voice. He says it is “my father’s voice”.
I am weary with sadness, yet I rejoice in remembering the thrill of his boyish joy and manly heartfelt laughter. As a little boy he delighted in life – his playmates, the Torah, going to temple, his dad’s shop with all its intriguing tools, and their treks out into the hills. He skipped and giggled just ahead of me as we made our way to the garden, to the market, and to draw water. He could always make me smile, even when he was naughty. As a man, his belly laugh like no other can be raucous, but always infectious. His eyes blaze with …what? … with life! His mere presence fills a room. Heads and hearts turn toward him.
Now, he with his friends go from one field to the next. With bloodied hands and a bleeding heart he often harvests ragged rocks, boulders even, that can sprout in seemingly well tilled soil. He watches while others reap succulent grapes, fragrant olives even luscious figs. Bountiful harvests – enough for all. Yet, never for all. He labors to free the fields of stones, rocks and boulders. While some labor to fence themselves in; to fence others out.
He is tortured by what he says, fully present and yet also somewhere else.
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