Contemporary
The smell in the garage is lousy. Old bulbs coated with years of dust and cobwebs don't cast the best light either. But when I pick up my guitar and my fingers find the strings, and that first riff comes screaming out of the amp, the only thing that matters is sound.
I'm starting to feel dizzy again—and scared. I need to sit down. I make my way slowly to the table and collapse into the moulded plastic chair. On the table is something I hadn't noticed before: a white envelope. With my name on it.
Cuando agarro mi guitarra y paso mis dedos por las cuerdas y el primer arpegio sale con toda su fuerza por el amplificador, todo desaparece y lo único que importa es la música.
We stopped by a simple stone monument.
"What does it say?"
Aviva paused to read the Hebrew. "It commemorates the soldiers who died while taking the hill in the 1948 War of Independence. There was probably a village here."
"What do you mean?"
"Probably some Arab village."
I turned to Aviva. "They planted trees over an Arab village?"
"Sure."
"Why would they do that?"
Aviva shrugged. "To make the land beautiful, I guess."
I stared at her. Then I rubbed my temples. Aviva seemed like a stranger. My head buzzed. I wanted to say, This is not a forest. Instead I said, "What happened to the people who used to live here?"
