And when are you leaving, Sally says. Sally might be one of the best, most efficient medical secretaries I’ve ever met, especially on this side of the ocean. She holds the fort all alone for years, with seemingly gracious ease. Sally is cool, calm, collected, like she stepped out that “Beatles” song. Yet she is a very warm person, nevertheless. She’s a formidable woman, I think she might be same size as the doctor. She could defend him, she would too. I always notice, out of habit, whether one is big or small, in case there’s a fight, most humans and animals and might be birds too have a resolving advantage over me, so I don’t know why I still bother. In two days, I say, so huge thank you for being so accommodating, I know it’s the last minute and all, I appreciate it so much, my Mom is indeed very sick, you see, I need to be in the best shape as soon as possible, to be able to take care of her. Oh no, Sally says, sorry to hear that, and where does she live, your Mom? Israel Oh. Sally’s eyes widen, and she says, very quietly and with deep conviction: -I support your country. The doctor does too. While saying that, she slightly touches the silver cross on the chain she’s wearing, I never noticed it before. I’ve a vague feeling the cross plays some crucial role. Besides that, I feel a bit awkward. And a lot surprised, which is one of my default states of being. One of the other ones is not being surprised. I don’t expect anyone to support my country, I mean now this one of my countries because I belong to several. The thing is, I was born and bred in another country, that really but really didn’t support that other country, nor did they support this here country, which they proclaimed to be the biggest evil of all, I suppose the feeling was mutual. As for my country that Sally supports-several things were implied, one, that my kin should go get lost there already, and two, that everybody who even thinks to leave is a damn traitor, both a bit of moot points, since throughout almost all the time it was impossible to leave. Even so, they did print books about people who left and then were very sorry, one of the books was called “Bitter Taste of Apples from Eden”, I still remember a passage by heart, it went like that: “Khamsin is blowing. Behind closed shades, the newly- minted children of Israel sit. Bitterness is in their mouth; bitterness is in their souls.” Then times started a-changing, and we indeed went to this country there, and it was obvious there too, that few support it, and then we (different “we”) came to this country here, twice as we went back and forth, and then I didn’t hold my breath either. It is very tiresome to explain, what with all these countries and all. In short, no, I don’t really expect anybody to support my country, not in my this other country, and not in another, first country of mine, which since split and the biggest country went war on the smaller but still big country I grew in, and I was hysterical in the beginning of the war, and screamed “Let me die so it stops, let me die!”-but since then I came to, and thought: it was very not humble of me, and against our teachings, for human sacrifice is not what’s wished for, and one life taken can’t atone for the sins of others, or solve their tribulations. What was left to me was to call each time they were being bombed, and at first, they appreciated it a lot, but then became deadly tired, yet they still answer me, which is very kind of them, if to think of it. Then though the war started in my other country, and the number of people, to cry for and call to, grew exponentially, including sometimes me too as I had this stupid idea I can live in two places, only I am not calling myself, but what’s ringing then in my head? And one becomes incredibly tired indeed, and upset at himself for daring to be tired, and this mixture creates some chemical reaction, and wiring in the brain becomes faulty, the bulbs go dead or too bright as they please, and I try to adjust to this. It poisons you though, turpentine, turpentine. So, back to the fort of the doctor’s office and Sally who holds it, my main feeling is surprise, but then again, I’m often surprised. I’m often surprised when someone likes me, I don’t know why, since I’m historically well-liked, and surprise is so big it doesn’t let, at least for some time, other feelings appear, like trust, joy, or gratitude. It’s like I am a balloon filled with surprise, in dire need to be poked. Same thing happens though when someone dislikes me (I might learn of it later, many said to me “You know, I really didn’t like you in the beginning”, sometimes I ask stupidly” why?” even though I should know better, but I get some interesting answers too). Then I am also surprised-which in its turn, doesn’t allow space for feelings of hurt, or pain, or anger, it’s like I get stuck in this surprise stage, again, in need to be poked. But now I stand before Sally, and she looks me straight in the eyes, and I can’t even muster gratitude which would be fitting, luckily Sally asks if I was born in Israel, no I say, Ukraine, OH NO, Sally says, I’m so sorry, here I come up with “yeah.…it’s strange to think how many years went by, and so much happened, and now one looks back and realizes things can always be worse, even though back then it was Chernobyl, and Afghanistan, not that somebody I knew was sent there, and then I was in Israel already, been there during Oslo Accords and intifadas, and …” Chernobyl?! Sally says, omygod,1886 it was? You lived close? 1986, I correct, raising my brows just a bit, but maybe it was a verbal typo, so to speak. Close yes, but not quite, well, 60 miles, probably? Oh my, Sally says, just to think of it, what was it like, did you watch series “Chernobyl” I say, they kinda nailed it, more or less. I was but a very young girl of course, I recall everything very vividly, yet I didn’t fully comprehend what’s happening nevertheless, it took decades, I cried for the first time when talking about it to my own kids already, was it the same year my childhood friend died from cancer? You should write memoirs, Sally says, now with loud conviction, exclaims, even. Me? I mumble. Why me. Many people write memoirs. True, Sally says, but they are not you. Hard to dispute this so I say nothing. And think, Sally says: one day, there will be grandchildren, and they will ask your kids, their parents: and who was our Nana, and what happened in her life? Sally says this in a high thin voice as if she were a little girl, please, pretty please, who was my Nana, and what has become of her? I suppress the immediate desire to tell Sally that Nana, aka me, kind of hopes to be there and tell it all herself to her grandkids, after all Sally is right, statistically chances of Nana making it aren’t great, it’s weird even that I made it until now. OH MY, Sally says, I’m not your grandkid and even I want to read your memoir! Now I’ve been poked, but the new feeling is hard to name yet. Think about it, Sally says excitedly. I will, I say. *****************
* A story always becomes fiction, in a way, even if started as based on a true event, after I write it. Something happens to it in between. Maybe I want this something to happen, and see where it lands, hence the story; even though in the beginning, it doesn’t feel like it, it just feels like some strange overwhelming thing that doesn’t let me do other things until written.
**I might paywall/archive this soon -I do it very seldomly, not in order to entice anybody to pay, but when I feel I need to protect somebody. Most people in my real life are not supposed to know I write, neither here, nor at all.
Yes, I do understand that not writing anywhere would make it so much easier.
***Even though it might be that ship sailed, and all who were not supposed to find me, did so already.
****Also, Substack has now this stupid feature, “unlock the post behind the paywal, courtesy of, using our app”.
I reached out to them to see whether one can exercise any control over it, and the answer was that this new feature is built into the algorithm, and no, authors can’t control it. Made me livid, yet such is the current state of events. I hope they rethink their policy.
*****Interestingly, I wanted to write this bit in Spanish (why? no idea. As I’ve no idea about many things), but then chickened out, I mean I wrote it in Spanish in my head, but didn’t want to triple check the grammar, for I am incredibly tired. And sick, I might add. Then, who isn’t.
*******To illustrate the fragility of a story, I’ll tell you a secret:
I never owned a pet rabbit.
This zings forward and back the way it should, you’re 3-dimensional, painfully and somehow startling wonderful.
There’s a lot to be said for having a focus. I have wanted to know what my grandparents were like before I knew them as older people. Because of that desire I decided to write and record my poetry and essays. Now my grandchildren can read what I think and make up their own minds instead of creating some fictional story about who I was and what I thought.