Farewell

We picked Maya up at her home in Bat Yam, where I met her daughter—an angel who smiled radiantly and hugged me. After I shook her tiny soft hand, I wanted to sweep her up and squeeze her tightly, but I settled for taking pictures while she fed a stray cat.

Later, as we sat together at a restaurant on a beautiful day by the sea, Maya hugged me. She didn’t let go for a long time. When we finally pulled apart, she held my hand tightly. I always expect to be shoved away if I reach out, so I didn't know what to do-except not let go.

She gave me a necklace of amber stones and round orange beads, a gift that will always remind me of the balloons held by people lining the streets and freeways in Israel on the day of the Bibas family funeral.

The next morning, Maya and I met again. After coffee, we stood by the Mediterranean, watching the myna birds, the rolling crests of the small waves, the hopeful surfers and fishermen. For once, I could discern and voice my feelings: “I’m happy to be leaving, but I want to cry.” It wasn’t regret. Looking back, maybe it was nostalgia for my time in Israel—or gratitude for her friendship. I had always believed she cared less for me than I do for her.

We hugged a few more times as we said our farewells and walked along the tayelet, the sea breeze tousling our loose hair. By her car, we embraced once more. As we began to move apart, she grasped both my hands and said, “I love you.”

I dared to say it back, but in a whisper. Something so precious is too fragile to say aloud. But because it is so rare, you must acknowledge it and hold it close when it briefly brushes your life.