Evening falls between mountains.
I walk the stone paved alleys, close my eyes to capture
The scented mixture of damp rock and wood burning stoves
As if there were oil lamps still glowing on the streets
And sturdy donkeys and cattle on the ground floor of buildings,
their huddled bodies warming the upper abodes, some home to Jews,
others to Christians, but equally lulled in the temporary silence
of respite. Our guide is Maria Sara and I am here to
translate for others, these stories repeated to children
And tourists, to be savored or forgotten. We conjure the next day:
women stirring cauldrons of broth, smoking meats,
in the upper reaches, letting fumes out into the village ,
or youngsters running behind their elders, herding sheep out
into the hills beyond bridge and river. Animal remnants
and aprons set out to dry. Incessant ringing of hooves
on cobblestones, and the strays who slip through narrow allows where
a hefty soul or person with too many burdens can barely fit.
We slip through sideways.
Tonight, I surprise myself, finding most of the words to pass on these tidbits ,
or stir gentle awe with tales of how once these peoples lived together
in peace. I stumble, but have by my side smart friends:
They pick up the clues, dredge up the phrases, evoke the chisel
or the pulley, the mending of a broken spoke, the juniper pulled up from an
orchard. Adriana from Patagonia can read out the words in Hebrew or Ladino.
Sandra, with her architect's eye, the signs of wear and repair.
Ours is a kindly bunch. Entranced by a town, we nurture a thirst for knowing, and the
Thickness of moonlight. There has always been hardship. And wounds that open and close
and reopen. Exiles, inquisitions. People who fall silent in the face of edicts,
who pick up weapons for the wrong war.
Any war.
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