The rain makes the stones of Jerusalem glow,
As if they are being shined for a new season of spring,
The sky, most of the year an azure blueness of infinity,
Now menacing us with its angry granite grey clouds
Crossing the sacred skyline of the Old City.
Walking becomes treacherous,
As the stones provide no assurance
That your gait will get you to your destination,
So I walk hesitatingly across the landscape of Rehavia
Walking down Narkis is particularly hazardous,
On my way to the sacred space that is Mayanot.
Winter is miserable here,
There is no let up,
No possibility of that brilliant azure blue during this season
And everyone reflects the depressive atmosphere
In their gait, their posture and facial expression.
But this is after all Jerusalem.
It has survived millennia,
It surely passes through this annual depression,
Without hesitation
Its people manage too,
A potpourri of ethnic mixes etched in their skin color,
Each with their own genetic story,
Each here for a particular thought, promise, dream, rationalization,
Seeing this piece of real estate as the spiritual center of the world.
My father too,
Walks carefully on the slippery stones
A survivor, he senses danger personal and with his ethnic radar,
Reminds me to step with caution,
As he has always done,
First priority has always been caution, survival, rebuilding.
He too came here,
15 years ago,
Never looked back,
This Holy City was for him
A place,
Where he never again would need to “look over his shoulder”
As he had for decades in Vienna, Australia, London
Always wary
Always worried
Maybe it could happen again?
Mistrust of government
Police, authorities
Now free,
This city of dreamers, mystics and madmen.
Here he feels at home,
Despite the slippery stones.
We dress up tonight
I know he loves to look dapper,
Crisp white shirt and tie,
Blue blazer and camel cashmere winter coat, trilby hat
Quite the gentleman!
We walk into the lobby of the King David
We note the absence of Mum
Who used to come here on the balcony overlooking the Old City
Father and son.
Fathers and sons…
Do all sons feel this way?
The clock ticks
Time is merciless
Each visit a gift.
He sits overlooking the Sea of Galilee
The cloudy skies make a haze of the lake
But so quiet and peaceful
His mind focuses on starlings flying around chasing each other
His mind flows to eternal nature
He is at peace.
We make Havdala and look at the empty easy chair
Where mum would rise to pay respect to the exit of Shabbat
And hold each other’s hand in that father son knowing
No need for words
The pain of her absence binds us.
On the table are his paintings,
His daily routine includes a couple of hours with his palate,
Inspired by mum,
And his choice is always horses and birds
With a couple of pictures of his cat Candy
Whom he adores as she plays hard to get
Intuitively knowing that’s what he needs.
Back in Jerusalem
The rain pounds the window sill
And the wet chills the bone
But in his Prussian precision
The routine goes on
The measured portions
The schedule
The tucking of his tztiztis exactly folded into his underpants,
A survivor he thinks about those long gone
And I, his son
remain
In awe.
Maybe he is the soul of Jerusalem?
