Farewell

One day, five years after my father's death, I went, as I usually do, to visit my mother in Haifa. During this visit my mother told me that my father had left some handwritten pages and she handed them to me for safekeeping. I was surprised. When my father died, I had longed to find something handwritten that he had left behind for the family. A letter. A diary. Anything. I was disappointed that I came up empty-handed. And now, out of the blue, when I was not expecting anything, I was holding in my hands a document that my father had written with his own hand. Line after line, in my father's familiar handwriting, were now spread out before me. Some of the sentences were very short; reminders, hints. Others were somewhat more detailed descriptions. Here and there were notes in the margins, as if he had remembered some detail later on. The text presented facts and events in a chronological fashion, absent of feelings. This collection of pages was not addressed to me. These pages were a treasure trove for me. While reading them I discovered that I was gaining a clearer understanding of the series of events in my father's life. Throughout the years, my father would tell his life story, but never in a chronological or orderly way. One story after another. Sometimes stories were told repeatedly, but I remained uncertain about their chronological connection. Now the puzzle of my father's life was sorting itself out. I knew that one day I would do something with these pages. But not just yet. And so, I put the pages aside. Two years later, a series of events took place that left me with a burning desire to start. Several days prior to Rosh Hashannah 2012 I sat down to write. The words flowed and I did not stop until I finished. 

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