Memory

Back again

I’m in Tel Aviv, walking the same streets I did five years ago. The northern part of the city, near the marina. I recognize the park, the steps down to the beach. It’s late, but then again that’s the only way I know this city. Some thirty six hours ago I left Atlanta. There was a stop back home in Virginia to switch luggage on my way from DCA to Dulles. A few hours in Istanbul’s airport (before the terror attack). Now I’m here, and it’s well after midnight. But with cousins and a Goldstar beer to welcome me, all the travel recedes into a painless blur. Another round, a few more stories to tell before bed.

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Water and memory at 80th Street

What was once seemed completely permanent has long since been swept away. Pushed out to white-capped depths by summers that felt so busy but whose importance I can’t quite recall. Through all of that life it took too long, but now we are back.

Not all of us, though. Parents left first and then grandparents; not the way things were supposed to go. Through all the fun runs a somber thread. Our time together will can’t help but be a sort of memorial service, informally at least. This one, though, is more formal. There are ashes to scatter and hugs to give and things we don’t quite know how to say. I think we do admirably and anyway there is no one here to notice but the waves and sun who must remember us when this was only a joyous place.

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