I think about the parents.
After September 11, I thought about the parents on the plane telling their children, "It's all right," when they knew it wasn't.
After October 7, I thought about the parents, struggling to keep their children quiet.
When I say, "I thought about them," I mean, I cried until I threw up, again and again. I mean, I walked around my house like a zombie. I mean, I laid awake at night.
I think about Shiri, as we all do, clutching her boys. Terrified. And telling them, "It's all right, I'm here. It's all right, don't cry."
I think about her and I can't breathe.
I think about Yarden, broken so completely and terribly that he may never recover.
I think about how much my heart hurts and how much a heart can hurt and how much pain a body can hold inside and how many tears you can choke back.
I think about how we try to pretend that we are okay.
I think about how we are a generation that will carry these scars and pass them on, the way we pass on our traditions and our love.
I think about the parents, all the parents, desperately telling their children that it will be okay.
It's not okay. We're not okay.
