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Shiva in the Pessach home is unique. Visitors stream in and out, and a special warmth exudes throughout the house. Behind me, an enlarged happy family photo takes up a large section of a wall. Along the same wall stands a small table displaying the photo of Netanel
October 24th, 2024
It’s been a year of pain and words
The year has ended
The words have gone
But the pain won’t let us go
It’s been a year of waiting and praying
The year is over
Time goes on
But we stay the same
A year has gone by
But nothing has changed
The tears keep falling
Just like yesterday
The pain keeps calling
It won’t go away
October 1st, 2024
October now
October then
The time between
October rains
The ground still dry here
Nothing grows
October days
We never chose
It is too early and too late to dream.
My sister-God braids my hair for
it has grown since the mirrors wore black.
It is too early to die, too late to be born.
I have carrots to chop, soup to cook, a child to read to.
The soup tastes weak; it is mixed with lost time.
Uncle Yosele, may you rest peacefully
outside Tel Aviv in the makeshift hospital
where cousin Bati watches over you.
She told me how you hid under a car
for two days without water,
how you saw your son Ron massacred
holding the hand of his daughter, Sarah.