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Authors: Ayelet Tsabari
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later.”
“No, Ima.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m sure. We’re sure. This is my home now.”
“But you’re alone here.”
“We have good friends,” she said. “We have Shabbat dinners with them.”
“You have Shabbat dinners?”
Ofra nodded. “Every week.”
Reuma felt more confused than ever. “It’s not like having a mom here. To help you.”
“Then come here, stay with us. Live with us.”
Reuma stared at her daughter in disbelief.
“You can stay in the guest room,” Ofra said and Matthew nodded. Perhaps he understood Hebrew more than she thought.
“And leave my sister and my friends? And your brothers?”
“It’s up to you,” Ofra hurried to say. “Even just for a while. I could really use your help.”
The snow was falling heavily now. Every time Reuma looked outside she was taken aback. She tried imagining herself living here but could not picture it. She wondered how the city looked in the summer, couldn’t fathom how this bleak landscape could possibly come to life again, though she knew that the trees would turn green and the flowers would bloom. Ofra had told her the summers were hot, sometimes as hot as they were in Israel.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ofra followed her gaze. “I just love this time of the year. It’s magic. I can’t wait for Yonatan to grow up, so we can make snowmen and snow angels …” She looked at Yonatan and her face softened, her tone changed. “Buy you a tiny little snowsuit.”
Reuma looked at her, surprised: Ofra was smitten with theweather, with the naked trees, with the season; she felt at home in this cold, strange country. Reuma felt a sharp, quick pinch in her heart. Her daughter wasn’t coming home.
Matthew cleared the table and Reuma watched as he began loading the dishwasher, wiping the counters, a towel thrown over his shoulder as Reuma always did. Sleep was tugging at her. “You said you know other Jews who … didn’t,” Reuma said. “How did their families react?”
Ofra glanced at Matthew. “In different ways. Some didn’t mind. One friend’s family didn’t speak to him for two years.”
“You see?” Reuma said.
“What do I see? Is that what you want, Ima? They’re talking to him now, and they missed two years of their grandson’s life.”
Reuma leaned on the table, picking at a hardened turmeric stain on the white tablecloth. “I just … I don’t even know what to think. I can’t accept this.”
Ofra levelled a tired look at her mother. “So what do you want, Ima?”
“I want you to circumcise him,” Reuma said, taken aback by the question. What she wanted was off the table; she wanted to rewrite everything, she wanted the story she had told herself when she was younger, growing old with Shaul, with her family around her, sharing recipes with her only daughter, watching her grandson being circumcised in an event hall by the same Yemeni mohel who had circumcised her children, celebrating the birth at their local synagogue, among friends and family.
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Ofra said sharply. “Now what?”
Reuma thought of Shaul. Though he had always been quicker to lose his temper, he was also first between the two of them to calmdown. It was Reuma who held a grudge, who struggled to forgive. She wondered if she had it all wrong. Yes, Shaul would have been furious, disappointed, heartbroken, for weeks, maybe months. He would have yelled, slammed doors, and Reuma would have had to beg him to take it easy. “Your heart,” she would have said. “Your health.” But then it would have been him who would have forgiven his daughter first, his baby girl. He would never have been able to keep it up.
“I don’t know,” Reuma finally said. She looked up, stunned into silence when she saw that her daughter’s face was wet.
Yonatan let go of his mother’s nipple, hanging off her arm while Ofra wiped her tears with the back of her hand. She had hardly touched her soup.
“No, Ima.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I’m sure. We’re sure. This is my home now.”
“But you’re alone here.”
“We have good friends,” she said. “We have Shabbat dinners with them.”
“You have Shabbat dinners?”
Ofra nodded. “Every week.”
Reuma felt more confused than ever. “It’s not like having a mom here. To help you.”
“Then come here, stay with us. Live with us.”
Reuma stared at her daughter in disbelief.
“You can stay in the guest room,” Ofra said and Matthew nodded. Perhaps he understood Hebrew more than she thought.
“And leave my sister and my friends? And your brothers?”
“It’s up to you,” Ofra hurried to say. “Even just for a while. I could really use your help.”
The snow was falling heavily now. Every time Reuma looked outside she was taken aback. She tried imagining herself living here but could not picture it. She wondered how the city looked in the summer, couldn’t fathom how this bleak landscape could possibly come to life again, though she knew that the trees would turn green and the flowers would bloom. Ofra had told her the summers were hot, sometimes as hot as they were in Israel.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ofra followed her gaze. “I just love this time of the year. It’s magic. I can’t wait for Yonatan to grow up, so we can make snowmen and snow angels …” She looked at Yonatan and her face softened, her tone changed. “Buy you a tiny little snowsuit.”
Reuma looked at her, surprised: Ofra was smitten with theweather, with the naked trees, with the season; she felt at home in this cold, strange country. Reuma felt a sharp, quick pinch in her heart. Her daughter wasn’t coming home.
Matthew cleared the table and Reuma watched as he began loading the dishwasher, wiping the counters, a towel thrown over his shoulder as Reuma always did. Sleep was tugging at her. “You said you know other Jews who … didn’t,” Reuma said. “How did their families react?”
Ofra glanced at Matthew. “In different ways. Some didn’t mind. One friend’s family didn’t speak to him for two years.”
“You see?” Reuma said.
“What do I see? Is that what you want, Ima? They’re talking to him now, and they missed two years of their grandson’s life.”
Reuma leaned on the table, picking at a hardened turmeric stain on the white tablecloth. “I just … I don’t even know what to think. I can’t accept this.”
Ofra levelled a tired look at her mother. “So what do you want, Ima?”
“I want you to circumcise him,” Reuma said, taken aback by the question. What she wanted was off the table; she wanted to rewrite everything, she wanted the story she had told herself when she was younger, growing old with Shaul, with her family around her, sharing recipes with her only daughter, watching her grandson being circumcised in an event hall by the same Yemeni mohel who had circumcised her children, celebrating the birth at their local synagogue, among friends and family.
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Ofra said sharply. “Now what?”
Reuma thought of Shaul. Though he had always been quicker to lose his temper, he was also first between the two of them to calmdown. It was Reuma who held a grudge, who struggled to forgive. She wondered if she had it all wrong. Yes, Shaul would have been furious, disappointed, heartbroken, for weeks, maybe months. He would have yelled, slammed doors, and Reuma would have had to beg him to take it easy. “Your heart,” she would have said. “Your health.” But then it would have been him who would have forgiven his daughter first, his baby girl. He would never have been able to keep it up.
“I don’t know,” Reuma finally said. She looked up, stunned into silence when she saw that her daughter’s face was wet.
Yonatan let go of his mother’s nipple, hanging off her arm while Ofra wiped her tears with the back of her hand. She had hardly touched her soup.
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