The first time taught me what to look for. The second time, I already knew.

I was fourteen the first time I came home to a driveway full of cars and didn’t understand what I was looking at.

It was January 1994. I had come back from basketball practice, the same walk I made every day. Off the bus, across the highway overpass, through the acoustic walls that sealed my neighborhood off from the noise of the city. Concrete gave way to dirt. The crunch under my feet was familiar. The guava trees that lined the narrow path smelled the way they always did, sweet and a little deceptive, the kind of smell that promises more than it delivers.

I was not thinking about Giza. I was thinking about practice.

Then I saw the driveway.

Cars everywhere. My uncle’s. My half-brother’s. Cars I recognized and cars I didn’t, all of them parked at wrong angles, the way people park when they arrive in a hurry. My first thought was that it was a welcome home party. Giza had been in the hospital. Shiba, the best in Israel for that kind of operation. The surgery had gone well. She was recovering.

I sprinted through the gate.

My sister opened the door before my hand reached the handle. Her face stopped me.

“You need to go to mom and dad’s room,” she said.

I walked down the hallway. My father was sitting at the edge of the bed. My mother beside him. He had been crying. I had never seen him cry before. His arms opened.

I dropped to my knees and we broke together.

Giza was fifty-eight years old. A rare bacteria had found her in her weakened post-operative state. The doctors were not prepared for it. She was........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)