"מוטיב בקטנה" הוציאו אסופת יצירות בנושא קיץ. גם אני משתתפת. התמונות המצורפות לסיפורים הן שלי.
"Motive Baktana" has released a collection of works about summer. I, too, participate in it. The photos attached to the stories are mine.
The End of Summer / Sharon Har Paz
Summer is starting to recede. It is true that the end of summer is harder than summer, and more days of heat and humidity are in store for us, but these will probably be less intense. The difficulty is less physical and more mental, and this stems from the agony of parting from the heat and the anxiety from the approaching cold.
This is the time of year when I organize my wardrobe and change the summer clothes to those of the mid-season and winter. There are clothes, such as singlets and sleeveless dresses, that have their last wash, which I iron, meticulously fold, and store in the closet until next summer.
I don't store my shorts yet, although in the mornings I feel cold in my knees. It passes after an hour or two, when the warmth of the sun's rays enters through the wide-open windows and warms the apartment. I haven't changed my short pyjamas to the winter one yet either. I stall with it a little more, until the moment comes when it too gets a final wash and long-term storage.
At night, I still cover myself with the thin wool blanket, which I switched to about two months ago after the nights became chilly. I estimate, based on the chaos in the weather (remember the global warming and its damage?), that it will be a couple of months before winter arrives. For me, it's a comfort, because I prefer summer, even if it means Hamsin.
Last Summer / Sharon Har Paz
We had one summer, in which we met; another summer, in which we broke up, and in the middle – a cold winter. A short, unsatisfying love affair, not what I was looking for.
Two mature women, hot, groping inside each other, coveting. First morning coffee, the round bun with sesame that you have warmed for me, spread with delicious chocolate, melted. The warm, loving embrace. The dinner I made for us. And in between – the laughs, the small talks, the calls between our errands, your work, my work… the flow of life.
Winter in Paris. The city was cold to us with its falling leaves on the rough sidewalks. We freeze towards each other. Moving away slowly.
summer in your city. You wandered around restlessly, furtively packing your leftovers. There was no more hope. What was there left to say to each other? Gurnisht. I'm trying to peel your words, to remove of them the stinging salt, which opens my wounds again and again, doesn't let them heal. The words between us never came back. I prefer to entrench myself in my silence. Go already! go!!! Get out of my life already!!!
The fireball shone with terrible intensity, silently burning everything that was between us. Everything was pointless. Fine sand, blond, gnawed between my dull teeth, cracking my arid lips.
It was our last summer. After it, came an eternal winter, grey-white, blinding, freezing.
The Pot was Steaming / Sharon Har Paz
The city bent under the burden of the heavy heat, its sigh is clearly heard. The Hamsin in the summer can be quite hard. After training, when I left the freezing gym, I was feeling relieved. A warm and pleasant evening welcomed me with a light wind that caressed my face and slightly wiped away the sweat that dripped from them. A familiar figure passed in front of me on the path, holding a large pot that looked very heavy. The sight was quite strange. A woman in a gallabiyah (gown), her head well covered with a scarf, walks slowly, with difficulty. It was obvious that the effort was not easy for her. Upon reaching me, I raised my hand and she immediately stopped, placing the pot on the nearby bench. The aroma that wafted from it, made it very clear – tchount (cholent) for Shabbat. While standing up, she moved her fingers to release them from the great effort. I could hear their sigh of relief when they thanked me for stopping the woman. "What's going on?" asked the owner of the pot, smiling at me with the smile I knew from generations ago.
Interesting, I said to myself, so many years passed since I last saw her and she hardly changed. "It's you…" Her words came out towards me slowly, with amazement.
The hot pot between us was steaming and we didn't see anything through the vapour it emitted, except of each other.
אתם חייבים להיות מחוברים על מנת לשלוח תגובה.