My mother calls me while she is at work,
and chats about the weather and the war in
She says she has seen thirteen patients in
four hours-mostly the elderly who complained
about everything from applesauce to
the climate change in New Zealand.
I do not have a job. I am a freelance artist,
and worked ten to seven pm every day,
painting pictures that will be thrown in the
trash later, just because I didn’t like them.
I only managed to sell one painting when
I was seven years old, and my grandmother
gave me fifty cents for a portrait of herself
I had drawn at school.
I remembered school. The place with the desks,
and the books you could take home.
My mother is still chatting away, on and on and on.
I looked out the window at the
flower on the windowsill,
and thought about Israel.