​ I’ve been friends with two women, Deby and Ale, for short of forty years. Our friendship survived my seven years in the US, where I did my graduate studies; Ale’s years in Spain, where she studied for her master’s and her PhD and where she’s still teaching at the university; and my last years back in the US, where I’m still living. Since my injury, we’ve been communicating via Whatsapp. Deby put together a WhatsApp group, and we organize a group video call every now and then – the wonders of contemporary technology.
Ale travels quite a lot. While she was traveling, she fell in love with Africa. Since then, she’s been flying to this continent whenever she has a chance. She was visiting Marrakesh and sent pictures of the Saharan desert to the WhatsApp group. I watched them for a long time and was fascinated: the large, mountainous desert at sunset, with an expanse of orange sky surrounding a dazzling circle of sun; soft mountains of ocher sand stretching endlessly; shadows of turbaned people riding camels cast on the sand mountains. I was entering a strange world on the border between fantasy and reality, and in watching this world, I could picture myself traveling across it. I could walk through it without needing to walk.

​My brother and his wife decided to renovate their apartment. Their stove had gotten too old and had to be replaced, and since they would replace it, they decided to make all the changes they needed to do for the house to be habitable, which had been long overdue – in for a penny, in for a pound. So, they hired a contractor and went to several stores to pick appliances, paint, floors, and toiletries. They planned the house to be ready when my older brother came back from visiting me in Beacon (I tell all about that in Turning Sixty).
But as soon as the renovation began, problems cropped up, which caused it to drag out: businesses brought their products later than they had assured, and the products were taller or shorter; there were unforeseen cracks; the employees in charge of installing them didn’t show up at the expected date; and myriad issues that prolonged the eagerly awaited ending. My mother had traveled to Israel to meet her new great grandchildren and to see Alona, the eldest, in the flesh. When we talked on the phone, she related the misadventures of the ill-fated project as well as my brother and his wife’s bitterness. Nothing went well. And on top of it, the lack of a sink prevented them from cooking and eating on clean kitchenware, which forced them to go downstairs to wash it and then come back upstairs – an inconvenient way of living. When the house is livable and more beautiful, said I, these misfortunes will be just an anecdote. You’re right, she agreed.
The conversation gave me food for thought. After all these mishaps, the house would be finished. So, they could set their eyes on the time after the renovations. But I didn’t have an end in mind: I didn’t know if I would be able to walk or to move my arm and hand freely; I didn’t know if I’d be able to swallow or to talk “normally.” That meant I couldn’t focus on a happy ending. I had to wait. I had to focus on each baby step, as a nurse at the rehab center used to call the tiny progresses I made. And every time my eyes looked in the distance, I should turn my head and look near me.