We Were Kids, and It Was a Long Time Ago

A Farewell Column for Giora Lifshitz (1973-2019), a childhood friend who died of a serious illness at the age of 45. With love.

Line 10 Does Not Reach the Cemetery

The station of line 10 in Ben Yehuda-Arlozorov is between the Persian kiosk and the Heller toy store that the seller does not look like Heller at all. And there are almost no toys in it but only darkness and a lack of goodwill. And a black plastic car in a crumpled cardboard box raising dust in the shop window. The Persian's kiosk has popsicles and a newspaper, but there is nothing new. It's three in the afternoon. A long school day. In an A.D. Gordon blue shirt with drawstring, and in the dining room on the wall a picture, and the farmer plows the land with it, and in the background of the parents, the name of socialism pales. In '82 they are still married.

Giora and I are standing at the station. One lady asks: "Say, girl, does line 10 reach the cemetery?" I don't know what a cemetery is, ma'am. I'm not really big. I'm just tall. We are eight years old and since the 16th grade, we have been going back to Jaffa alone by bus. Alone but together. The mothers always told us to travel together. Mom always said to check that everyone is there. Line 10 has not arrived yet. Giora ran out of tabs, and his mother gave him money for the trip. But I still have three piercings, and we both want a popsicle. So we calculate. Giora buys us a lemon carvet, and I punch him in the orange tab. More things happen in '82, it says in the newspaper. But for small, tanned hands, stickiness from lemon carvet, these things don't mean much. There is a war in Lebanon. A building fell in Tzur. They say that Uri's father from the 1st grade is dead. They say that the end of the world will come in 2014.

Line 10 does not reach the cemetery, the driver tells the lady. It continues south on Ben Yehuda, stopping at Ben Gurion Boulevard, where the nature teacher taught us to identify the lamp found. The bus passes the Gordon Gallery, sometimes you can see paintings of Giora's father there. And sometimes you see Giora's father himself. We are already ten years old. The boys begin to reek of the perspiration perfume of puberty. Passover break is just around the corner, and there is a workbook. Giora pushes it into the bag. When we get home in half an hour, I will sit at the big dining table and I will calmly solve everything and then I will put it in the bag. After the holiday, before we go back to school, Giora will ask me to copy.

Line 10 doesn't go to the cemetery, ma'am. It stops in Carmelit, and from there it goes through Hemard Street. Who rebelled and who conquered? All of us together. Where does the future begin and the past end? We are already thirty years old. Marriage. Pool party. Things happen in the bathroom. The girls became women and the boys became men. I have a red bikini, but I have no idea that the blessing I should have written to Giora and Michal the beautiful under the canopy was: "Amen. May life not provide you with opportunities to discover the kindness of people. Amen. that God let us continue to rage, like we were angry when everyone was still healthy."

We are approaching Jaffa, Beit HaTzel, Clock Square. Both me and Giora have already had children. How much they resemble you, it's hard to believe. I was so sorry to hear about Jasmine. What is it, haven't seen you in years. Are you in the country at all? The past spills through our children towards the future. And again dirty little hands. And again a sweaty forehead. And again shiny and smooth skin by the light of a flashlight that turns on for the evening in Jaffa. For a moment I don't know if it's them or us.

The bus climbs in Yafet, passes the flea market. At the next stop, we will get off. We are already thirty-five years old and our parents are starting to fall apart. A piece of father here, a piece of father there. Were they really larger than life or were we just small? Beautiful mothers are scattered around the house. One mother on an armchair, another mother by the laundry, a glass of wine in hand, and a pack, going through life like the transistor of the guard in A.D. Gordon, catching a clear broadcast how sometimes.

At the bottom of the road is our house. Big and red with a curvy build, and does not reveal anything to us. Not where the future begins and not where the past ends. I hear the call of the muezzin, saying things I don't understand. The reading of the Altea seller, and the horse's hooves. I don't ride a bike yet, and that's why I tell him, Giora, about Yom Kippur, listen. But when I look to the sides there is no answer. I am alone. Suddenly Giora is no longer with me. Where is he? Mom always said to check that everyone is there. Mother said. But something happened. When I wasn't looking, I lost him. I lost Giora. I stand alone on the descent and listen. And only then do I understand that the muezzin cries for Giora. And Altea Iye cries for him, and the horse too.

Now I'm older and already know what a cemetery is. On Sunday I even placed a stone on Jasmine's grave. There were hundreds of kids there the first time, and we were all looking for you. A rabbi with good intentions told a story and the tears flowed. 

Like the sweat of childhood. Salty like the sea on Yom Kippur. And even though I saw your name handwritten on a sign in the sand, I still can't believe it, because line ten does not reach the cemetery and there is not even a station there.

---

Sometimes

Sometimes

On Friday we would sit in the yard,

Under the red house which is actually Bordeaux.

People lived there who wrote and painted and made clay pots

And we would arrive at the small and dark gallery

where time stopped for a moment, and the universe disappeared for a few hours.

Sometimes in the morning

We would eat in Ada's white plates

Another Arab who is not Ronen

filled in one and only.

We see the Highlander over and over again

And we are sure that the eternal man

It's not just a movie.

Always

There was an argument about who would get up to bring.

Jump with plates over the people

who sit on the steps at the entrance.

Always Giora

He would get up and go get it

Because he is the owner of the house and everyone knows him.

Sometimes we ate acid. Without plates.

Sometimes,

Amalia was

looking at us from the window above,

Drinking beer from a bottle

Smoking and talking about skateboards

and other girls.

Sometimes,

Amnon comes with a new motorcycle

After a day of renovation work,

making a lot of noise

wakes everyone up before noon,

Looking at us from the high little window

and going to sleep for a few days.

Sometimes,

We would lose to Ido in basketball

At Eitan's in the yard

Ido used to play in Hapoel

And was taller than all of them by at least two heads.

Sometimes

Giora put on a new CD,

Faith No More

lights a lighter

And was taller than all of them by at least two heads

also.

We celebrated once

A bachelor party

Everyone saw football in the yard

drank beer from a bottle and smoked

And I passed out already at a quarter past eight on the sofa

Because that's what singles do.

"Nothing will come of you,"

Amalia told us,

"All your life sit, laugh,

talk about simple things,

Watch the time pass and we will grow old here in the yard."

I was a little mad at her then,

I thought it might be true,

But you don't have

 to say it out loud.

Now I really, really want

that she will finally be right.

Let's all sit down for one more Friday,

We'll drink a bottle of beer, we'll smoke

We'll talk about other girls and skateboards.

And that nothing will come out of us.