The writer's eldest son, Amir, was killed in action in Lebanon in 1988.
By MIKE SIEDNER
Bereavement envelopes many
Both in the army
And civilian life.
Bereavement is a blot on the landscape.
Slowly drifting apart
Old time acquaintances:
Some quickly
Others circumventing.
For them bereavement
Is a traffic jam.
The route on which we travel,
So familiar to us
Is a hard path, strewn with obstacles,
With endless twists and turns,
Steep ascents,
And dizzying drops,
On which we stay
Twenty-four hours a day,
Without respite
For what remains of our lives.
We have no stations,
Where we can unload,
Even a small part
Of the unbearably heavy
Burden of bereavement.
Here and there
Are short mid-journey stops
Where we can briefly pause.
We are required
Always to stay alert
Navigating carefully,
So as not to find ourselves
Rolling back
To the bottom of the bereavement abyss.
We've been there already
Broken and forgotten.
No one pulled us out.
Each one of us,
With his own strength
Made his way
Up the steep slope,
Back to everyday existence.
Each bereaved family
Remains alone,
Holding tightly to life's rudder.
We must continue with the traffic's flow
Through life's artery,
While confronting
The new reality.
The writer's eldest son, Amir (pictured) was killed in action in Lebanon in 1988.
Translated by Dani and Assaf Gavron
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