28

The evening before leaving Israel, I walked through the old neighborhood where Jamie and I had lived. I walked our old street, Rachov Yehoshuah bin Nun, stopping at our old building, 28א (28A), the front bordered by the same low, stone wall, the same wood-stained fence embedded into the stone wall, the same cactus-sprinkled garden bordered by cobblestones and tended in the same courtyard by the same Dutch woman who, years before, had been responsible for gathering the building’s maintenance fees and collecting our mail when we went abroad.

I ascended the interior stairs and flipped a red light switch, timed to stay on for twenty seconds, just enough time to conquer four floors when hustling. I hurried to the sky blue door of apartment 8. The door was closed. I pressed my ear to the metal surface just as the light went off. Silence. The same silence we left years before.

I could have stayed there, concentrating, my ear flush against the metal, listening for the voices of our friends – our past lives – echoing off the linoleum and plaster within. But I didn’t stay. Chose not to stay. It was enough. Just knowing it all still existed was enough.

Outside, the air was cool. I headed south on Kovshei Katamon. Then the phone rang. It was Lieutenant Colonel Dominitz.

“Hello?”

“Hello, David, this is Ian from the Prison Service.”

“Hi Ian.”

“I want to let you know that I checked with your request one last time. I’m sorry to say that, unfortunately, the prisoner has again refused.”

“Thank you for calling. I understand.”

“If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”

“Of course, Ian. Of course. Thank you for your help.”

“It is no problem.”

“Well, that’s it, then.”

“Have a safe trip.”

I hung up the phone and glanced over to see a young boy, while helping his mother unload groceries from the back of a van, pause from the task to toss a pomegranate into the air playfully. As it rose, slowly arcing in the night sky, I thought of my family. Of my love for them. I imagined squeezing my girls and holding Jamie as the pomegranate fell into the boy’s hand, his mother saying, Maspeek – Enough. The boy reached the pomegranate out to her pleadingly, a gesture of forgiveness. The fruit rolled into her cupped palm. She placed it in a bag, kneeled down, and kissed him on the forehead, his arm reaching round her neck, her palms gently pressing the small of his back as he lifted his body to hers, standing on his toes.

And I knew. Knew everything needed was contained in feet lifting onto pointed toes, was contained in kisses on foreheads and arms reaching. Knew it was time to go back, time to live the life we’d been granted by chance.

The boy looked over at me as the van’s door closed and smiled, waving. I waved back. “Goodbye,” I said. “Goodbye.”