My memory is worn, scarred, stimulated and pained. Once a year, I sit shiva in the national mourners’ hut, wearing a three-piece suit, hair styled, everything in place, crying reservedly. Once a year, they bring out my grandparents’ freckled wonder girl to say something touching, something authentic and real, while all made up for the cameras, hoping that she won’t forget to top it off with an interesting anecdote from her last encounter with him. The wonder girl, who turned 30 this year, who has the first hint of wrinkles around her eyes, isn’t sure how to sort between realities and revised memories, among the images in her head…
My memory hurts. How does it hurt? It hurts like longing, like a broken heart. Why use the word ‘like’? My heart is truly broken. Maybe I’m blessed because I used to have a normal family, with an omelet in the evening and a warm blanket at story time before bed, with pajamas with a faint smell of laundry detergent, with the table set for Friday night dinner, with cakes and relatives. And when everything shattered and we almost became a meager copy of the family we once had been—a faded row of almost painfully beautiful, mourning figureheads—I decided to rescue the remnants of the family I had and stopped cooperating with the collective memory. Access the full article>>