I’m sorry I haven’t been paying more attention to you. I’m sorry I haven’t visited since Operation Cast Lead. I’m sorry I haven’t been counting rockets with you. I don’t know how you live like this.
I’m in awe of you driving to work, to school, to the supermarket every day, after spending my commute this morning considering which ditch I’d jump into if there was a siren.
I’m heartbroken by the fact that your children have to learn a song about red alerts:
I’m listening to the countless sirens on the radio today, my heart skipping a beat each time they announce an azaka, skipping two beats as they announce lists of cities one after the other, until I hear that it’s not in Tel Aviv. I’m so sorry that this means that it’s still you. It’s still you panicking, running, rockets hitting your homes. Still you.