Mirrors That No Longer Shine

...I remember, Mother, that we had an almond tree in the garden...
The sparrows would take shelter in it, in the heat and in the cold.
And it bore my name and my brother's... we carved our names into its ribs.
So where is it, Mother?...
— It grew very old, my darling, and the storm broke it...
Your father planted it before the sea took him. He said:
Eat from it in my name, and remember me...
— And it will never blossom again, Mother, in the garden of our house, the way it used to? And the sparrows of the beloved house will never shelter in it again?...
Where do those sparrows go, Mother... in the days of heat and cold... now that the storm has broken the beloved almond tree?
And Mother... I remember, among the things I remember, that we had a green arbor... with red clusters hanging in it... and above it a moon, as if it belonged to us alone in the village...
We would eat of the clusters... and live with the moon...
But the moon is not here, Mother... nor the red grapevine...
— It withered, light of my eyes... it withered. A worm gnawed at its roots and it died. And we built this loft in the face of the moon, so now the moon is above the loft and you cannot see it.
— Did the moon die, Mother, along with the arbor?

— No, it did not die; but it is no longer ours alone in the village...
And Mother... in the vineyard we had an ancient oak, standing by the path... a great one, its branches stretching in every direction... people took shelter in its shade, coming home at the noon of the day...
It was part of the precious inheritance the family's grandfather left us in the village.
But the oak is not where it stood, and there is no shade beneath it. And the sun scorches the path with fire at noontime...
— We burned it for firewood, seed of my heart. Firewood and charcoal... The winter was cold upon you... I feared the cold for you... so we uprooted it that you might remain, my life...
...In the house, Mother, I remember we had a great chest... it stayed full of the grains of plenty, of beautiful white wheat.
And above it, here on the wall... a cross my beautiful sister plaited from the sweet ears of wheat... The chest stood in blessing.
But the chest is not here, nor the cross above it...
Did we burn it too for firewood and charcoal, Mother, in the days of cold?!
— My life... you remember precious things. The chest is still with us, in one of the corners of the house...
But there is no grain in it anymore.

Your father went away... and the chest stood in blessing...
And the blessings kept overflowing from it until you children grew up...
— Then the chest went dry before our faces, Mother?!
— May your faces be kept safe for me, my darling... your faces are the faces of plenty in my house. But you deserted this land, my son... for the city.
And I stayed alone... and the land lay fallow...
It will overflow with plenty when your father comes home.
— And why does my father not come home, Mother?
— The sea bears us old grudges, my son, and America — her heart is of iron...
Her water is harsh and dry...
Write to him to come home...
There is tenderness in your letters, my son...
Write to him...

And in my mother's breast there were chokings of grief; I saw them brim over in her eyes...

...And on the quay of the harbor, I met my father...
He came back one day with the sea...
The sea took him from us in his violent prime, in his fiercest vigor, in the confident stride...
And one day the sea gave him back to us other than as it had taken him...
...And on the road that brought us to the village, my father passed by our ancient oaks...
His eyes were devouring the soil of our vineyards along the path...
Here, every grain of soil knows my father, and my father knows it.
He lived all his youth with it... all of it turned to jewels in his palms...
My father made jewels of it, that it might become treasures in our house...
Here... everything used to know my father, and my father knew it...
All of it was reared in the love of his heart and the bounty of his young strength...
And I heard — I heard in my father's breast something great and mighty pounding...
His heart was pounding as if it would tear his breast apart...
And my father asked me about the ancient oak he had not found along the road.
I said: We burned it for firewood and charcoal, Father, to keep off the cold in the city — so Mother says...
And my father rubbed the fingers of his hands together, as though there were ice in his palms...

...And at the house my father had built for us before he sailed, my father drew himself toward the garden...
And I was at his side, studying the lines of his face...
And he went around the garden, from tree to tree...
The seeds he had pressed into the earth had become tall trees...
The little saplings... had grown old, and he would gather their leaves to his breast...
And he pulled me by the hand... Where is the jujube tree? I planted it with my own hand...
— Over there, Father, at the far end of the garden... We ate from it often, and my children and my brother's children eat from it still...
— And the almond tree... it was here; I still remember that I planted it here...
— The storm broke it, Father. The storms at our house are dreadful; you built the house for us on the shoulder of the valley... and in our valley the storms are frightening... And before the storm broke it, we ate of its life and remembered you, as you bade us.
— And the eastern balcony... from which we used to look out over the back of the ridge?
— It came down one night... we rose in the morning and found it on the ground.
— And the red arbor?
— A cursed worm gnawed it through, and it died. And the great wheat chest, Father, is empty; there is no grain in it... Mother said it would overflow with plenty when you came home... Tomorrow it will overflow with plenty...

And in my father's eyes were great tears, which he let roll down his wrinkled cheeks.

...

And when my father gathered us to his breast — all of us, my mother and my brothers and I... I felt that our house had filled with plenty, and through my tears I saw the almond tree come back young to the garden... and blossom... and the sparrows came back to it... Never again will the almond tree grow old...
And we shall eat from it often.
And I saw... through my tears, the red grapevine, heavy with clusters. It had turned green again, as if it had never known despair.
All the blessings came back to our house...

I wonder — why did my father not ask me about the moon that was ours, above the grapevine?

1948