Shoval – January 30, 1998
Yonatan, apparently this Shabbat
too you won't get out on leave. This is my feeling every time I
think of something that I would like to talk to you about. I need to
remind myself that apparently you won't get out at all. However,
much I say it to myself or to others, it doesn't register.
I remember that on the first day I
had this instinct that we would surely sit and talk about this in
your room. You'd say what you'd say. Even though I'd probably not
agree with everything you said, things would look clearer suddenly.
You would undoubtedly get upset because I have a thousand comments,
additions and questions about every sentence you would say and
because I don't let you talk. And we'd feel together, we'd feel
brothers. But I'm still waiting for that meeting. For the confident
smile with the narrowed eyes, that makes me feel that everything is
all right. Meanwhile, everything is not all right, and things are
not so clear.
And I don't know whether on the
last time we parted you were disappointed in me or angry with me;
and what your expectations were of me. And even though I know that
no one in the world could live up to your expectations, not even
you, I still don't feel good. And I every day... every day think
several times what you would do, and what your opinion would be, and
whether is would meet your standards and whether you would be proud
of me. Maybe tomorrow I will see you walking that walk of yours that
I could always identify from three kilometers. You would walk past
me, glance at me, perhaps say a word of greeting, as if everything
were normal, and I don't know whether to be angry that you left or
to be happy that you have returned. But when I see that walk of
yours from far away I will know that everything is better. And I'll
feel a little proud. "That's my brother." Like I always
felt. How many times have I already dreamed that it happens and
hoped but I told myself that it won't happen and yet I still hoped.
I miss you so much, Yonatan.