A Letter to Jerusalem
It is true. I miss you already. I miss your smell. Your light breeze. Your Kotel, your winding streets, your old buildings. I miss your people. The young, the old. The secular, the religious. I miss your open markets. Your quarters.
I miss your quietness. Stillness. Movement. Boisterous singing. I miss your sounds of davening from remote rooms off an alleyway. I miss the children, throwing things on the roof and trying to retrieve it to pass the hours. I miss the predictable Heradi cupping his eyes to make sure he doesn't accidentally look at me. I miss the laughter of our group.
Jerusalem, I miss how comfortable I feel when standing in your midst. I miss my leisurely evenings strolling on your brick roadways. I miss your little caffe shop that sells drinks in the evening. I miss waving to Amir's son at your pizza place just down the street. I miss your delicious breakfasts.
I miss your Old City. Your tunnel. City of David. Kotel. Jewish Quarter. Great Synagogue. Walking tours. Landscape. Temple on the Mount. Markets. Pre-Shabbat scramble.
Jerusalem, it is true. I miss you.