Cowles Point

Everything you can think of is true.

Tom Waits

I turn the corner toward Cowles Point, which

is really more like a curve than a point, still I

stick to my side, the right side, trained by the

lanes in Tel Aviv. I shut out the world with my

Rachmaninoff in my ears when two cyclists

come around the bend, spread themselves wide,

across both sides, nearly collide. With me, but

before I can even react they blow past and I’m

back to my Rachmaninoff. When a lady who

has a purple t-shirt that says Happy Grama and

wears one of those water bottle backpacks so she

can sip at leisure, come up to me and  points

back to where the cyclists had been. They got

way too close to you, I nod, that shouldn’t happen,

I nod, grateful for this protective purple grandma

and curious at my own complicity at the carelessness

of the two two men with cropped white hair and

colorful cycling outfits. Oblivious. But I don’t

tell her I can’t hold should anymore in my

mouth. Too many already. There shouldn’t

be a war. I shouldn’t be here. My husband

shouldn’t be there. No one should have to

huddle in a bomb shelter. Ever. Or be afraid.

Ever. Or be reminded every time you hear

a siren. Of him. And feel you have to justify

why you have to leave. For a while. I like

your pants, she says, they’re called dancer

pants, I tell her and she asks why and I say

I think it’s because you can easily move in

them. And she nods. And smiles and tells

me to be careful. And marches away, sipping

water from her backpack.