Long time gone...

I know I haven't written in forever. What to write? When to write?

Today a grown man cried as he told of his mother's exhaustion, walking and walking--having been expelled from her home in 1948. He was one year old. She was too tired. She couldn't go on. She set her child under a tree and dragged herself on, relieved of his weight. The child stayed under the tree alone, witness to the massive expulsion. But his ten year old sister came back for him and bore his weight on her hip.

We were just eating lunch. His age came up and then...then he started telling of how he was one when the Nakba happened. 62 years ago. And how he was left. And how his poor mother was so tired that she would leave her own child. And how she was not alone in this. How could she? How could she not?