The Yom Kippur War in 1973 turned our group of friends from innocent, naive idealists to "real Israelis." Our friends were killed by enemy fire; they were soldiers, proud Israeli soldiers. Chuck and Eli, Betarim from New York, are both buried in the same cemetery. They're not in the same section, and maybe it's just me, but the walk from Eli's grave to Chuck's somehow seems longer than it once was.
It's more than just the physical distance. At Eli's grave among his friends stand his widow, mother, daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren. Around Chuck's grave, there are just friends. Eli's daughters are a decade other than we were when he was killed, and some of the grandchildren are older than his children were.
This annual get-together is something we "look forward to." Work schedules are changed when necessary; time is taken off. Thirty-three years! Afterwards most of us continue the meeting at a friend's Jerusalem apartment. We've all been through so much together, both joyous and sad, for a lot longer than the thirty-three years.
Yes, I walked today. It's nice to walk, and I'm thankful to G-d that I can walk.
Walking is possession.
When I walk I see things that otherwise I wouldn't notice.
Some friends were afraid that the roads would be blocked, but they weren't. Some sidewalks have been destroyed.
this! Yes, isn't it something unreal?!