I couldn’t write while I was in Cleveland, while my kids were at Camp Stone, while my younger boys were in day camp. I couldn’t write when the library was nearby, when I took out more books than I could ever manage to read in a summer simply because I could take them out. I couldn’t write when the weather was mild, when the rain was cleansing. I couldn’t write when Starbucks was down the block, when ice cream featured way too prominently, when all the Slurpees cost .82 cents. I couldn’t write when I saw my students and saw how much a year had changed them, had grown them. I couldn’t write when I was reunited with my beautiful friends who live in a faraway land. I couldn’t write when Channan got to see his dreamed-about New York and head to the Statue of Liberty. And I couldn’t write when Channan and I went to see the Today show and I got to see Matt Lauer, a long held geeky dream of mine. I couldn’t write at Hershey Park, or at Chautauqua Lake or in a beautiful cottage. I couldn’t write, really write, when I wasn’t here.
Because how could I write when I was having summer when everyone in Israel was having SUMMER.
But now we’re back. And there is a ceasefire, maybe. And more boys are at home. And everyone is trying, desperately trying, to stuff as much levity into the last few days of vacation. It got so that war was just a regular part of life, where sirens simply faded into background noise to be stepped over or around as a mild inconvenience. Because, truthfully, sadly, heartbreakingly, people can get used to anything.
And now we’re back, holding our breath, waiting to see what happens next.
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