I have been entertaining the hypotheticals: the what-ifs, the coulds and woulds, the maybes. I am going back.
My regular customers, as invested in my goings-on as they are their own children’s, are fascinated. I have received hugs and handshakes, joyful applause, and an excited onslaught of questions asked mostly in English. One man looked at me through years-wise blue eyes and told me, “be careful.” I readied myself for the political lecture that did not come. Instead: “The heart is a delicate thing. Be careful, honey.” Everyone seems to agree that traveling a third time is significant. I’ve become the object of a love story they never had. God help me.
I wrote it a thousand times: my time from Israel would be long. I was certain. It wasn’t a feeling; it was knowledge. Truths are so temporary.
If I am honest then I must admit that there are days I am horrified by my decision to return. I am astonished by the amount of time I have decided to stay and for the thousands of dollars I have already spent. There are days that I am overwhelmed by the realisation that I again have no idea what it is that awaits me there. The bigger fear I have, though, is what waits for me when it is time for me to go. I’m pretty certain it’s awful. And if I’m sure it’s both awful and inevitable, what business do I have going back? I wrestle with this.
I’m so very jaded in a whole host of ways. Even still, I always go for the glimmer of hope. I usually pay for this. Maybe someday I’ll learn.