She prays like she never has, knowing that this place is home
The humidity of Tel Aviv hits her when they land, and she gazes in wonder at the white stone in the airport, so different from JFK’s sterile fluorescence. From her cab, she stares wide-eyed at the hills of Jerusalem, lights twinkling in the valleys.
She spends her week trundling down Bar Ilan on the 49a, holding on for dear life while the bus driver punches out change and a woman thrusts a baby at her to hold. This girl hates chaos, but there’s something in this chaos that is magical.
This girl comes from a three-story house with her own massive bedroom and closet. At her cousins’ apartment, she shares a room with six girls on three bunk beds. They happily pull out a trundle for her, take turns making meals, and never close their front door. She is envious of how alive they are, of their sense of purpose, of their ability to let go of the little things. Her life isn’t like that.
Her first time at the Wall that Motzaei Shabbos is nowhere near enough, as she stares up at the stones, the notes in the crevices, the pigeons settled on ledges. She prays like she never has, something inside her knowing that this place is home. And when her flight departs the next day, she cries and says, I want to go back.
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