The Dress   

Ihave a dress. Hand-sewn, slightly crooked seams, with soft lace trim.

I’m wearing it now as I sit on the porch with my baby. We’re perched above the Atlantic Ocean, with the salt of the sea and the cries of seagulls overhead. Fishing boats bob on the sun-washed waves, brightly painted specks of blue, red, and yellow. The wind is soft, carrying the fragrance of fresh bread from the bakery down the block. It’s beautiful here. It’s peaceful. And for now, it’s home.

We first came here, to Portugal, many years ago, on our way back from Israel. My husband had wanted to make aliyah, to build a life rooted in something deeper than American soil. We left our comfortable home and the life we knew, along with our two teenage sons and young daughter.

But plans are fragile things, and the rosy dreams didn’t take shape the way we’d hoped. Our first attempt at settling in Israel ended after a traumatic incident in which we were attacked by a group of Arabs. We journeyed back to America via Portugal, simply because we found the only available flights going back (that were within our budget!) through there.