The Symmetry of Cakes and Words and Love

 

 

Last week we had three birthdays in our family.

My husband’s was on the third. Our daughter Maya baked him a cake. Maya’s was on the fifth. Her boyfriend baked her a cake. His birthday was on the seventh and it was Maya’s turn to bake him a cake.

Three birthdays.

Three cakes.

Each of them with its own story to tell.

Maya baked her father a lemon-pound cake. For her boyfriend, it was Black Forest. Her boyfriend baked her a cheese cake. Each recipient received their all-time favorite cakes.

In the outside world, they were talking about missiles and alarms and wars. We were reminded about things that are out of our control.

Inside our home, small gestures of love. With everything we were going through lately, it felt big and significant. My husband has this awful disease looming over him and the ruthless treatment. Maya has her own worries about her future. Her boyfriend, too. And yet, they expressed their love with cakes.

There is something concrete and practical and centering about baking a cake. Maya once told me that when she is stressed, she bakes. Strangely enough, even though I am no baker, I understand her. Baking gives you something to focus on. Baking a cake has rules. You measure the ingredients; you mix them and put them in the oven. You are in control of the process. And yes, most of the time something good and delicious comes out of it.

Me? I write. I try to transform my anxiety into words, the words into poems. I like to say that both of us create something. Maya – her cakes. Me – my poems, stories, essays. And no matter how much work we put into it, I am sure Maya’s creations are way better than mine. Well, at least tastier.

So, this is the story of our family this past week. Three birthdays and three cakes. Our love to wrap them in. And my words for us to remember.

The Invisible, Suddenly Visible Summer

 

Last night, the summer I thought would be an invisible one for me became visible.

Iran attacked us.

And everything that I was carrying with me for the past weeks, months even, felt like a wave that came crushing over my head.

The sirens are back. The late-night run for shelter. The flashbacks.

And so is the fear. For my daughter. For my husband. The anxiety. The exhaustion of spending so much emotional energy on medical appointments, procedures, tests and uncertainty.  I though I could at least move through them, survive them like I always did. For the past 14 years.

But no. Suddenly, the pre-alarm sounded. The headlines said: “Hey, you have one more thing to add to your piles of worries”.

But I won’t stop living my invisible, suddenly visible summer. I will try to cope, as I always do, by writing. 

Words never fail me, they come when I summon them.  

Invisible Summer - The Beginning

 

Sunday

I have to go outside today, to take care of some important documents. Otherwise, I would’ve stayed at home. It’s summer and it’s already hot outside, and it’s not even noon.

I smear sun-protection all over myself.

The first thing I see outside our building is the overflowing garbage bin. They haven’t collected it in almost a week. Is there a garbage-people strike?

Under the unforgiving sun, the stench is unbearable.

On the road, a cleaning machine thingy putters away, doing nothing for the dirt.

There are a lot of people outside. The coffee shops took out on the sidewalk their tables and they are packed. Everybody speaks loudly, about prices and politics. Does anyone go to work these days?

The sidewalk is dirty.

A cat, black and white, a Zorro look-alike face, is waiting near the butcher shop’s door.

A man is looking for his dog, I think, shouting his name. Or his child?

I do some shopping. Mainly milk because there is a shortage of cottage cheese and yogurt, only God knows why. Maybe they want to raise prices again.

The cleaning machine thingy has caught up with me. It still doesn’t clean anything.

Near our building the garbage didn’t magically disappear.

I enter the coolness of the apartment. Klara watches me obliquely with her yellow eyes. “Where have you been?” Pitzi opens an eye and then promptly goes back to sleep.

I turn on the TV. A terrorist attack. One dead, five injured. The perpetrators were two Israeli Arabs.

 

Happy Birthday My Sweet, Sweet Baby!

Today was an emotional day...My daughter's 20th birthday! 

It is hard for me to believe that 20 years have passed since Maya entered my life. I am happy, so happy to see her becoming a young woman, finding her own way in life...and I am also sad, so sad that I am getting old and sometime in the future I will go to wherever God will sent me to and I won't be able to witness her life any more.

But no tears and no sadness today. 

Today I am grateful for being Maya's mum for 20 years, for the happiness and the worry, for the good days and the bad ones too. For the smiles and the tears and the adventures we had together, the books we read, the games we played...

I am grateful for having her in my life, for the lessons she taught me, for her presence, for this entire Universe that she creates with her personality.

Happy birthday my sweet, sweet daughter!

I wish you happiness, health, good friends and may all your wishes come true and your dreams be fulfilled!

I love you with all my heart and soul.