What if?

Boy in Bunker

Something keeps drawing me back to this image. I’ve thought about it a lot over the last month and a half.

Fast-forward: an 18-year old Israeli soldier handling a Kalishnakov, yet, here in the states, barely old enough to drive and not old enough to drink.

Is he headed toward safety? Or, his demise? Moving toward the light post-mortar shelling?

What if?

Chasing after him through the bunker maze–at once exciting and terrifying.

Dusk at Ticho House, sweet aromas wafting through the garden cafe, a young bride beaming at her bridal party, Barkan Cabernet flowing steadily.

He tells me, “First, two people disagree. Then there’s a war.”

Negotiating a miniature white water cascade along the Jordan River. Buoyant from the salt of the Dead Sea. Gradually rising toward Masada like the black birds soaring over the ruins of Herod’s palace. Circumnavigating the crystal-clear waters of Tel Dan. Leaping, laughing, diving through the comforting waves of the Mediterranean.

“I could live here,” each tells me.

What if?

A rock concert with friends at Jem’s Beer Factory in Petach Tikva. Jazz at twilight while gazing at old Jerusalem. A community dance outside of the Renaissance Hotel.

So much beauty.

History. Desire. Tension. Disagreement. Conflict. Struggle. Strife. War.

He’d have to serve. (So would she.)

We dream about our next visit, spending our days swimming, lapping up the delicious, pressed flat-bread sandwiches and heavenly vanilla ice cream.

I look at this picture.

We are at peace here in suburbia. Safely removed.

I’m comforted.

Conflicted.

What if?

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