He Who Lies With Butterflies Now

Six months ago, a man was beautiful. He had always been beautiful.

Six months ago, a man was so very happy. He was travelling the world, a very typical Israeli rite of passage before fully embracing adulthood, even though he'd been an adult for quite some time now. He laughed often.

Six months ago, the man had the best time meeting new people, trying out new foods, new belly ache reasons, basking in the glorious Asian sun. Basking anywhere really was something he had always been rather good at, instant napper that he was.

Six months ago today, a man was sleeping, early in the morning.

Six months ago today, the man was killed. Uzi, my Tig.

But he had been fast asleep. He HAD to have been fast asleep, despite his aching belly, so fast that when The Wave crashed on him, he barely would have had time to be frightened. He would have fought hard, oh he'd have fought so very hard, for he was a Silent Warrior. But it had to have been over swiftly. Oh please, that it was over swiftly.

Tig, this is for you. Let this be my gift to you. I still don't know what to do with myself. I still don't know how it is possible to go on without you. I still don't see how it will ever come to happen, how it will ever make any sense. Techiat hametim now. PLEASE. I have so many good things happening in my life, things you'd love, things that would make you laugh. I have so many new books that you simply must read. I have to tell you that I may be visiting Israel, that there is someone you will love to meet, you can roll your eyes at me together, and that we must sit outside your room eating garinim, drinking coke and beer and playing Risk. Do you remember how high our laughter echoes on the kibbutz, how time seems to move slower in those summer evenings, bringing even the matzav to a standstill? Remember how someone will sometimes walk by and say Erev tov or A'alan, and we'll say it back? How the cows mooing and the refet sounds blend in with our voices and everyone but me complains abt the smell? Do you remember how synaesthesially green the grass smells when the sprinklers go off and we all sit outside, sometimes silent, and into that silence cricket sounds spill and we think Life has to be the absolute best thing about living?

I keep it all in though. I've been keeping it all in, don't know why. I've hardly blogged or talked abt you for a good while now but the flashbacks have been back, the silent or not so silent movie running parallel to the rest of my mind, and I swallow back the tears very often these days. I don't want to cry over you anymore bcs I kill you every single time I do, and it kills me. Often I want to ring Lila but I don't. I want to write to her but I don't. I want to ring your mum but I don't. I rang L. though, on Yanniv's Jahrzeit. Didn't help much either, he was 23 years old. You were 28. Yanniv's been dead 5 years and you...

I suppose it's the six months. Half a year. Half a year is obscene in the sense that the earth has not derailed and how dared it not. I'm afraid I too will derail if I put it into words.

Ever since I wrote this, there have been butterflies everywhere I turn to, in clothes, houses, movies. I don't know if it's a new fashion trend but they are simply everywhere. Also outside my door, they fly about outside my door, sometimes alone, sometimes chasing each other. So I know you're around - but it's not enough, you see. It will never be enough.