What We Are

2/esophagus

-MIRIAM-

Potato latkes. That is what I shall miss most.

Or perhaps Matzoh ball soup. Nice and warm as it goes down your esophagus. That was Chava's word of the day. I thought it was funny, and she rolled her eyes at me.

But now, all I wish is that I could be sitting at the kitchen table with Chava and her crazy book and Mama's delicious omelet's.

The flight attendant walks by with a smile, and I marvel at her perfectly golden bun, not a single hair out of place. Their heels seem to be a part of them as they stroll down the aisle, heads straight.

On the flight from Haifa it was mostly (or all?) female flight attendants. But now, from London to Montreal, there are some men as well.

Air Canada Savta said, the most famous Canadian airline. That is what I should take. She was the one that convinced Papa I should go. Or rather, forced. It's really the same thing with Savta though.

Now I am not so sure that all those hours spent begging and sobbing and threatening and promising were worth it. Do I really want to be alone in a new country? With no Mama or Papa or Chava or Tovah?

When we moved to Israel from Russia when I was eight, I told my father that he could never expect me to move again, other than to go back to Moscow. I broke my promise last winter as I swore that I would not go to university anywhere other than in Canada.

He said he would rather I go back to Moscow and study there if I refused to stay in Israel. (Tante Sarah and Onkle Dovid conveniently had a house there) All my friends were to be drafted into the army I argued, and I knew no one in Moscow now.

So I might as well have a fresh start.

"Away from your family?"

Yes.

And so as the captain turns the seat-belt sign on and the cabin crew are instructed to take their seats I swallow my fear and clench the arm rests, praying I have not made the wrong choice.

Because as cloudy Montreal makes itself known by its rooftops, I know that it's too late to turn back.