Last night a handful of my favourite girlfriends came up from Tel Aviv to show their support via handfuls of guacamole and bruschetta. We warmed ourselves in my icebox of an apartment with hot tea and red red wine and spoke of Qassam rockets and facebook status updates. We told each others stories of friends in our home countries who have a completely different idea of this war and Israel’s place in the middle east.
We spoke of the economy and friends who are unemployed. Friends who are lucky and only received a pay cut, a lack of jobs to go around- “arrange flowers I would!”- I say with enthusiasm. “but mandatory experience is required, and my college educated, wannabe quadra-lingual ass has no experience being a florist”. A collective sigh. Let’s sing karaoke instead.
I force myself to turn off the news. Opinions, reports deaths. Pictures of fallen soldiers are glaring at me and reports of deaths in Palestine bring me no pleasure. I may be the wife of a wonderful man, but I will also always be the girlfriend of a fallen soldier. With every bit of news of those in uniform, my heart aches- and I am reminded of my fallen uniform. A sack of clothes in the back of his old closet- that smelled like him for months after he died.
And then it hits me. More women will be added to the roster and I feel sick. More mothers will experience the painful grief of losing their son and I am sicker. The sky may be blue outside and the sun strong and shining, but it’s a very dreary day for so many people and it makes me sad.
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