On Ben Yehuda Street

Photo by Sander Crombach on Unsplash

At 3:45 in the morning, I awake from a bad dream.

“The same dream?”

My husband’s voice is soft in the darkness. He takes my scarred hand in his and brings it to his face. I move closer, the curve of his body molding comfortably against mine. This is how I remind myself that I am not alone. The silence between us grows warmer with each moment and soon turns to whispers.

I drift back to sleep. Later that night, I am again in my dream and again awakened by the explosion.

A few weeks ago I stepped into a world where time was stopped, and joy ceased to exist. Some days these dreams are so vivid, I just don’t know if I’m asleep or awake. Always the same noise echoing like thunder — it smells like smoke and ruin. And blood everywhere on the streets.

I want to get away from it so I pace the length and width of the rooms in our house. I can’t. That which destroys and consumes won’t let me.

***

Survivors and witnesses would recall the perfection of that early summer evening, a time to unwind over a cappuccino and pastry, to take stock of one’s surroundings.

The fact that it was also a Saturday night only served to heighten the restful atmosphere because Saturday nights in…