We hung on for quite a while after the funeral. I couldn’t bring myself to go. And by the time we reached the car it was ten minutes to eleven. Bish said he didn’t want to be on the freeway for the siren, because it could be dangerous to stop. So we just drove around the narrow country roads near the little cemetery, until eventually we found a dirt track that led down to the sea.

We stood together watching the waves wash over the rocks in a little cove, the strong smell of salt filling our nostrils. We could hardly hear the steady, piercing sound of the siren for the roar of the sea.

Then we got back into the car and drove home.

******

For the last few years, on the Internet, via blogs and their readers, I have experienced the heartwarming solidarity that so many non-Israelis, Jews and otherwise, share with us on this, the day we remember our fallen soldiers. I would like to thank you all.

In 2003, I wrote something about how some Israelis spend this day, those Israelis for whom this day has meaning far more than for the rest of us. I think it is still just as relevant.

I was meaning to write something fresh for the blogburst, but I don’t seem able to find the energy.