and i ordered the most expensive thing i thought i could stomach.

and i got as many refills as i wanted.

and at the end of the lunch, the Big Boss said he was really thankful for how hard we have all been working lately.

so, um, neat?

but the really great thing is that i have been listening to "my favorite things" by coltrane all day, and i swear to god 'everytime we say goodbye' reminds me of my father for some reason.

and i would call him to tell him how much i love him

but according to my mother he's been in bed sleeping virtually all day and night since his return from poland on the 12th.

so, i don't want to disturb his rest.

i am trying not to let this bother me, i am trying to stay calm

and

i am trying not to remember what it was like when my father first got sick and standing out in the pouring rain in front of my house, barefeet in the gutter, thunder and lightening and not hearing or feeling a thing

and

crying crying crying because the rain was falling and no one could tell

though i didn't think about what it must have looked like for me to be standing in the river-running gutter for four hours straight, barefoot and arms across chest, staring towards where the sun would be setting and soaked through to the bone with tears and rainwater.

because my mother sounds fine

and she is not worried

'the trip just took a lot out of him, jess, he knows it was the last time'

and i know it was the last time

and it makes me really sad that my father's had his last big trip of his life

because my mother told me a secret:

my father has been trying to scrape together money to take the whole family to israel

my brother and sister and i have never been

and when my father was working himself into illness there was never time to go

and then he got sick and he couldn't go until he felt a bit stronger

and now he's too unwell to go ever

and now i will never know what it's like to give my father my prayer to put in the wailing wall for me

which is the only thing i wanted to do when i got to israel

because, my prayer was that my father would one day know a day when he would not feel horrible debilitating pain all day and night without reprieve

i would have written it in my nicest writing on the finest paper i could find

and somewhere, in my head, i imagined him davening at the wall, the slip of paper rolled tight, his arthritis gnarled shaking hand slipping it into the cracks gently

and then he would have come back

and i would have kissed him on the cheek and told him i loved him

but i never would have told him what the prayer was.

i would have just hoped.

but now that's not going to happen.