Literati,
My dear friend Miryam emmigrated from California to Israel, and of course, we have not lost touch.The power of this story is that part that is unspoken.
Tamar
by Miryam Howard
Despite the abundant local story-telling activity, which most always is dramatically fabricated, Tamar, was actually a lovely, kind soul. Maybe a little strange, but aren’t we all?
Bent over and shuffling slowly with the assistance of her walker down the cobblestone sidewalk, the busyness of people rushing to get somewhere, passed her by without a glance. Distancing herself had become protection; her safety net, which left her on the fringes and too often labeled as peculiar and dangerous.
Few people really know her, much less anything about her younger years. Myself, being the nosey, writer type that I am, desired to know more about Tamar, so I began to seek out opportunities to engage her in small talk.
As she came to recognize me, she began to share a bit more and would greet me with a smile. I found out that she lived alone and had no family alive. She loves to do handiwork, supplying the local senior center with crocheted baby blankets for their fundraisers. She is an avid reader…especially poetry.
One day, I saw Tamar from my upstairs window and grabbed a few cookies still warm from the oven. I coaxed her into sitting with me on the bench in the corner park. As we sat under a big shady tree, I noticed her hand frequently touching a locket on a chain around her neck, as if she was making sure it was still there. I casually mentioned what a lovely gold locket she was wearing and asked if it was a gift.
There was a long silence.
Carefully opening the locket with trembling hands, she allowed me to admire the sweet little faces within, before our eyes filled with tears. I took her hand. We sat in silence.
I refrained from asking. It was an unspoken moment of clarity.
At these lonely times, Tamar may frequently be seen wandering along the old sidewalks of the Baka neighborhood in Jerusalem, peering into shop windows past her reflection, while whispering…
But, if one steps closer, a melody can be detected… Perhaps a lullaby to her first loves as she clings to her gold locket.
Touching story! You’re teaching me about writing simply. I love how you kept the locket faces a mystery. The phrase “sweet little faces” makes me think of children, lost to war or illness, or simply to growing up…but your last line about lost loves makes me think of lovers. Staring into the shop windows implies she is also missing an old way of life, lost to modern times, as so many cities are. Our elders have seen so much change and have so many stories to share. Glad you coaxed her to share a bit of hers!
Dear Laura, Thank you for your kind feedback. You encouraged me!
I do like the mystery or implications within my stories at times… after reading this to husband Baruch, he also asked…”Who are the photos in the locket?”… my reply was, whomever you imagine. I like engaging the ready to be a part of my stories…
Shalom.
Love it you’re the nosey writer type. Few bring it back to the table like you do.
Characters come and go. Some stick around keeping the fire bright.