You.
Unattached, coasting the plateau without a care in the world. What will be, will be. No drama. No commitment. No passion. No black. No white. Just beige. Grey. The predictable slight rises and falls that pattern our affluent futures tick over like a clock, holding us in a cocoon of safety and (breath now, deeply, and) exhale. No worries. No worries, mate, at all. The mortgage, the job, the kids, the dying parent, the distant friend, the unrequited love, the simchas, the naches, the travel, the new television, the latte-sippers basking in the Carlisle St sun.
Me.
Completely consumed by her taunts - with each song, each movie, each book, each poem - eating my insides, slipping my Australian identity off my shoulders ever so gently, with a persistent urgency - how can i blame her? She pulls me closer, she listens to my heart, she assures me that it will all work out, that sacrifices are bound to be made in one’s life, and that all her faults can be overcome some day, and don’t I want to be a part of that history? ‘Come now’, she beckons, curling her fingers, reaching into my soul and tugging my heart. My head wakes up and holds me down. ‘Not yet. Wait. You know you’re ready, but not yet.’ I listen, and each day drags on, i’m slowly dying waiting for the winter to melt to spring, for spring to herald the summer months, for summer to cool to autumn leaves, and then I’ll wave goodbye to you, one last time. Oh, Israel, my religious, spiritual, cultural femme fatale. You’ll have your ways with me…
… but not yet.