It’s different this time. I guess it’s always different. It’s different this time because I don’t have enough fingers to count how many people I know, by first or second degree, who are called up, serving or waiting to serve in Gaza.
And whereas in the past I figured the odds were too out there, I guess this time… it’s all just too close to home.
I don’t have a lot to say. The heart is heavy, the stomach is lead. The beep beep beeeep of the hourly news is louder than before. The prime minister sounds different.
We’re meant to go about our day, otherwise the terrorists win, but that is a really unnatural sensation.
We smile, we softly laugh. Occasionally, we lift our heads at the sound of a phantom siren. We hug our kids even tighter in the evening. We hear explosions from 90 minutes away. We go to work in the morning.
We read the names of the dead sons and really, there is no sigh of relief when you don’t recognize the name.
Because even though it’s not your own friend or brother or cousin or coworker… it’s someone else’s.
Whadya got: