The Dance
Three large suitcases sit in the living room packed and ready to go. We have told my mother that she is going to visit Ruth in Israel. And we have told her again, and again. But it is difficult to know just what she comprehends and what has been retained. The taxi arrives to take us to the airport. I take the suitcases outside and Leon helps her put on her coat.
“He is very nice.” She says of the cabdriver. And he smiles.
The airport may be the ideal location to camouflage an individual with advancing Alzheimer’s disease. This may be especially true of the El Al terminal at JFK. The noise level is deafening. It seems as if everybody is muttering to themselves. Hoards of travelers pushing baggage bumper cars; lines that seem to go on forever; legions of security officers, ticket agents, and airline officials all of whom seem to numb to the maddening cauldron of human activity and emotion that surrounds them. My mother is lost and dazed. But no one seems to notice.
As we pass through the metal detectors, there is a wonderful moment of profound humanity. Leon and I have helped her remove her coat, shoes and jewelry, patiently explaining that we will return it in a moment. I walk through the metal detector and begin to reclaim and repack my valuables (computer, watch, shoes, passport, toothpaste, shampoo) on the other side. But my mother does not know what to do and neither Leon nor I can take her hand and walk her through the detector. For a moment time stand still and the legions of travelers behind her begin to stare angrily. Then, a young, lovely Black security agent reaches out and clasps my mother’s hands. My mother smiles and, having found a new partner, begins to sing and dance. And the security agent dances with her and gently pulls her through the metal detector. They hug and my mother proclaims: “You’re beautiful”. It is a moment that brings me great joy in the midst of a difficult time and gives me hope for this yet to be experiment – still in progress – that we have entitled human kind.
The Kikar
We walk her through the cobblestone streets of the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem. Orthodox women pass by with infants in strollers and multiple children in tow. My mother coos and sings. Men in dark wool suits, fedoras and tzitzit flapping go rushing by. Large groups of Birthright students gathered around outdoor tables are munching on falafel and pizza. I lock my arm in hers, or hold her hand and we move ever so slowly through the alley ways. Young girls in long skirts and long sleeve shirts and sweaters hurrying to school squeeze by us. We move forwards so tentatively, the world swirls around us, and it is as if in we are in another time dimension. We make our way to the “kikar”, the central square, find a bench in the sun and sit. My mother tilts her head up towards the sun and closes her eyes. Directly across from us workmen scurry across scaffolds on the soon to be completed rebuilt Hurva Synagogue, whose yet incomplete concrete dome rises high above the Jewish Quarter. The sound of saws, hammers and concrete mixers fills the air. In the face of the noise and the swirls of people, or because of them, it is a moment of sacred peacefulness.
Family and friend call to ask how the move to Israel is going. For me it is impossible to respond more than in the moment. Now my mother is fine. This morning was difficult. She took a nice nap this afternoon. This morning we went for a long walk to the “kikar” ( the central square). I cannot say how things will be next week or even in the afternoon. My mother’s life is in the moment.
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