“Daddy. Couldn’t you have waited so we could say goodbye?”
I can’t sleep.
The sloosh and swish of the waves rising and falling on the stony beach, and the dawn stirring of the birds, draws me out of bed to the window. But the darkness is thick, and on the street, no one is moving. For a moment I forget why I’m here in this small hotel in Devon, England.
Then the memories flood in, rending my heart once again. “Your father has gone,” the voice on the other end of the phone informed me that Friday morning, as I was kneading my challah dough.
At first, I had no idea what she was telling me.
“What do you mean gone? I spoke to him yesterday; told him we were coming to visit. We laughed, shared a joke!” I cried out.
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