in memory of Yael Langella
I’m driving. When we come out of a bend
we see our destination, among pine woods,
looking towards the valley: the expanse
of the cemetery of Collserola.
It’s quite an old road. Going over a bump
everything jolts about and the boot clangs,
because it’s full of footballs and fishing-
rods, a bicycle handlebar,
our daughter’s buggy… Even when
they’re not present, my children’s voices
ring out here, playing or quarrelling.
The red van always leaves in its wake
a trail of life, untidy,
welcoming, waiting for an unexpected
journey, like a tiny apartment
travelling along streets and highways.
Today it is full to overflowing:
beside me sits the widower,
behind are your friends,
the most recent,
and the oldest ones.
At the necropolis I have to dodge
wreaths of plastic roses which the furious wind
tosses hither and thither over the tarmac.
Travelling up the avenue of the dead, I would like to hush
the noise of children, the exuberant life
I carry and which saturates me, which is out of place here.
Hopeless: they shriek, jump about,
sing at the top of their voices. Among the towering dead
we arrive at your place: a lofty recess,
as high as the sky. We bid you farewell,
gazing upwards. The ribbon tying the bunch
of flowers from your colleagues at PEN,
whipped by the wind, the pink ribbon
now stands up straight like a lance, directing
the gaze upwards, now moves
like a hand waving
saying goodbye, my friends,
good evening, friends,
goodbye friends,
have a good day.
Later, when I have taken everyone home,
we’ll be on our own, the car and I,
my red van.
I’ll hear again the deafening din
of children and, in their midst, your voice.
In Hebrew you’ll tell them about your travels,
in Russian, in Japanese, in German,
in Arabic, Bulgarian and Italian and my children will swallow the bait
and challenge you with the clatter of consonants
of a Zulu word they learned
last summer. Stopped for a red light
on Pentecosta street, I’ll hear again
the strains of Kroke’s music that was played at the funeral,
the long, meditative lament
of a violin. Green light. I’ll put the car in gear,
the accordion will dig its spurs into the double-bass, the violin
will kick up its heels and all three, plus me, will whirl about:
it will be a crazy dance, bursting with laughter, with everything
carried off spinning. My children will dance
humming the melody, skipping,
shrieking, and you too will be laughing,
dancing with them, Yael,
dancing with the future
for ever more.
Amen.