Monday, early morning.
She woke up from a nightmare, a sharp pain gripping her heart. Her heart began to beat rapidly, as if foreboding...
She looked at her husband sleeping peacefully beside her. She looked at the shining green numbers of the giant alarm clock, which announced that it was time to get up and start the day.
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Washing hands, morning prayer, breakfast for two, and long sips from the cup of coffee she received as a gift from her grandchildren, in honor of her last birthday.
Then she opened the pantry cabinets, checking what was missing. The refrigerator had been empty since last Saturday and she always liked it to be full and overflowing, in case someone surprised her or came to visit.
At around 10:00 AM, she returned with her hands full from her shopping spree. She locked her car and walked towards her house.
On the path leading to the entrance of the building stood five military men. She smiled at them and raised an eyebrow, not understanding what they were doing around here.
He turned to her, the tallest of them all, the senior, with gray hair and a large cap adorning his head. Making sure that this was indeed the woman they were waiting for.
She responded to the recognition and her heart began to beat violently. The sharp pain from the morning was awakened by the feeling that the worst of things had happened.
She's smart. She always figured things out quickly. She realized that if they were here, they weren't good news.
•
Restrainedly, she entered the building. They helped her carry Selia to the first floor. Her trembling hand was unable to grasp the key and turn the door lock...
And the silence. This silence. And the expression on their faces, made her whole body tremble...
She entered and they followed her. She entered the living room and sat down heavily on the couch.
""Is this the older or the younger son?" she asked. Both were in the army. One was in the regular service and the younger one was in the officers' course.
He spoke quietly, and with his head bowed, he began to tell and talk, like a recitative speech that repeats itself over and over again. But she stubbornly repeated the question, louder and louder: "Is it the big one or the little one?""
He could no longer evade the direct question. He bowed his head and answered: "This is your little son...""
She no longer remembered much of what happened after that. The tears, the pain.
The numbers of people who began to flow, to hug, to feel and be with them. The body swayed on its own, trying to calm the intensity of the pain. And the eldest son who went to recognize and say goodbye...
And more people come in and out, hugging and consoling. A huge funeral. Torrential rain. Obituaries. And she is in tears, unable to digest the sentence that has been handed down to her.
The days of the 'Seven' passed and with them the years.
14 years later, and she wakes up like every morning. Looking at the giant picture that hung in the hallway. Looking with intense longing at his laughing eyes that look at her...
She enters his room and takes out the photo album that has gathered dust. She misses the playful smile, the eyes that hide a prank. She flips through it painfully, and the tears that are fighting to stay in her eyes flow of their own accord down her cheeks.
The shared breakfasts, the conversations in the kitchen late into the night, the stories, the experiences, the mind games on Saturday afternoons, the melting and captivating smile, the small gifts, the big hugs, the laughter of the grandchildren who would jump on him even before he entered, the compliments and the great love he showered on her endlessly, the memories, the longing to caress his stubble-covered face.
The smell of his clothes hanging in the closet has long since faded. She mostly only hears his voice in her dreams...
Trying not to wallow in grief. Focusing on seeing the good. Only twice a night, when no one sees or hears, does she allow herself to cry, call his name, whisper it, feel him as much as possible...
•
Written as identification. The connection between reality and what is written is purely coincidental.
Dedicated to you, my dear uncle, with much love and appreciation, glory and Shaya Ben Porat, for your nobility of soul, restraint, the excellence of your virtues, endless love for your child, education in the fear of God, the way of the land, and love for the Land of Israel for people who are the salt of the earth...
And for the repose of the soul of Eli ben Porat, who fell on the 14th of Kislev, 11.12.2000.
He was 21 years old at the time of his death.
