thoughts from the tayelet

it's been

tearing toasty pita

to scoop hummus

and tomatoes

whose juices usually make it to my elbow

and cucumbers

who fall into my lap.

i've been walking the hills of history, everyday,

from the gardens of zion

to the graves of olive

to the settlement of scholars on scopus,

hiding out from time to time

for Bedouin tea,

inappropriate flirtations in parks,

disgusting pastries after work,

mostly peaceful protests against hate,

desert roller coasters in the back of a pick up truck,

dance parties on a porch in nachlaot,

and in front of the halva man in the shuk

because he says i'm sweet like halva,

and his free halva is very sweet.

it's mostly beautiful here,

except of course, when the red and white striped sidewalk ends,

but even there,

with the trash that stays

and graffiti that scares,

the sun sets and children laugh and the stones glow and my salaam alaikum gets a wa alaikum salaam.

it's hard to be blind here,

even the rose bushes and unlabeled pink flowers that drape into the sidewalk and fill it with incense

remind me of the water shortage

and the future war with the jordan river

as the dead sea dies.

looking out over the storm of this city,

whose mocking clouds haven't given me one drop in two months,

my tears promise to fall with the same certainty

that the morning mist will rise equally

over the wall to the west bank,

the bars of ben yehuda street,

the israeli flags in sheikh jarrah

the cafes of emek refaim,

the ruins of silwan,

and american accents on king david.

the mist knows no green line, barrier, or border,

besides those of the olive trees

whose leaves are left damp with dew.

can it change? for 2,000 years, one city's

history has been a sinusoidal fluctuation

of conquerors and desire and loss.

can anything but this wavering road

stretch out between the separation barriers

of this holy city?

up here,

it's just stones,

a pleasant village,

or a hilly view;

an alien would never have guessed.

now i'm gathering my things.

i have said my last shabbat shaloms on a quiet friday night in katamon,

and in one week,

will escape the constant pain

of walking anywhere,

and exhilaration of learning

the dense history the city constantly unfolds

in subway excavations

and street signs.

and i look forward to my smile

as i'll take whiskey with balanced birds and disposable cameras,

and devour the frosting on chapel st.,

and play august monopoly when the storms set in,

and flap my wings at my favorite snake,

and jump up and down at the faces i've missed,

and sigh at the top of east rock,

but i'll miss my frowns at the heartbreak of this city,

and the love for those making it better.

i'll miss the crazy protests to protect girls from learning anything,

and the neighborhoods that have taught me to look frum,

and my daily fix of battling the ideas of the middle east

and the pervasive disagreement.

i'll even miss the aggression on the bus,

and the absence of a fair line anywhere,

and the freedom of every afternoon,

and my vegetable delivery on wednesday nights.

i'll miss my landlord who calls me sister,

and the black hat battle that floods my face red,

and the awkward conversations with tami, ran, and ithar,

as i try to test my hand in a radio station for peace.

i'll miss never knowing what to order except taybeh beer,

and bickering for my 35 shekel price for two rolls of film in the old city,

and the onset of fear as the sun sets and i realize i have no idea where i am,

until every passerby is willing to direct me home.

i'll miss the thick smell of cardamon and coffee on al khan street

and the falafel at damscus gate
and watching the three men near the christian quarter play backgammon in intense silence

and tea with sage, rosemary, and mounds of sugar
and restaurants filled with the sweet smell of apple hashish
and kids dancing in the fountain in yemin moshe.

i'll miss frozen yogurt with mango, passionfruit, and date honey,

and waiting impatiently on saturday nights for the west of the city to wake up,

and the man who sits on the bench on emek refaim everyday, who smiles, waves, and sometimes asks why i'm sad.

i'll miss never knowing whether to say toda or shokran as i leave taxis

and the bus driver with aviators on egged number 18 bus that comes at 9:10 outside the post station,

and the train the weaves amid the hills between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv,

and the view of the valley driving away from the city.

i'll miss the espresso machine at work that i always mess up,

and overpriced ice cafe at aroma that i always find worth it

and lemon and mint sorbet

and 20 warm pitas for 6 shekel at the shuk

and oily rugelach from marzipan.

i'll miss light shows in old city,

and jerusalem bread outside jaffa gate,

and sighing at the concrete by the west bank.

i'll miss playing drums in archeological parks,

and yelling words i don't understand at protests,

and watching the sun set as i take my dried stiff laundry off the line

and the glow of the dome of the rock from the tayelet.

i'll miss playing john lennon on repeat and imagining no religion,

and thanking iron and wine, because it does look so perfect from these great heights,

and jangling to music that i don't understand, but makes me smile.

i'll miss the rush from stealing rosemary from the sidewalk to roast with my potatoes,

and the chaos of cooking for shabbat,

and the sweet kick of fresh challah

and the gooey delight of stuffed eggplant.

i'll miss the prayers i have come to memorize

and the caves and stones that surround the city

and the dates frozen at the back of my fridge

and coming back to curly haired smiles or long walks to nowhere and back.

amid this city of hatred,

stale and resilient hatred,

there's so much to love.

i'll have to play from the sideline now,

rooting for the love here with everything i have,

and remember its strength amid

reports from gaza and hebron in the new york times

that ignore its strength.

there is love.

i promise.

DLS