Day Seven:
Someone removed my son’s robe during the night, but I found it hidden behind sacks of grain in our storage room. I will keep it with my bedclothes from now on.
They don’t understand. How can they understand? The smell of his robe keeps him alive. Why is everyone so eager to take him away from me? No one mentions his name in my presence…it is as if he never existed. Have they forgotten his face? His smile? His laugh? Such an infectious laugh. How is it possible for them to extinguish the sparkle in his eyes?
Has it been a week? A week since I last heard his voice. And yet I still hear him in my ears: “father”. I remember the first time he called me ‘father’. No, not ‘father’. Among the many gurgles and burbles he suddenly said a word I could discern. Abba. Daddy. The more formal ‘father’ came later…once he started attending Hebrew school. Our Rabbi said it was less familiar…that a child should use a more formal word to show respect.
But I was always his Abba…until about a year ago. Benjamin began to call me ‘father’. I always thought it was because of his friends…that perhaps they teased him about being a daddy’s boy. Did I miss something back then? A growing distance between us?
Now that distance seems immense…a deep ravine that cannot be crossed…except in dreams. And so I sleep…
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