When a city is built entirely out of white stone, it is meant to be loved at night, in the glow of orange street lamps. Passover and the Sabbath coincided, thus taking cars, humans and bread crumbs off the streets. We wandered for two hours with no purpose other than to make memories in an empty city, to claim the playground for ourselves, to interrupt the silence and cast shadows on the orange-hued streets of Jerusalem. Overnight, Jerusalem had blossomed, if only to signal to me that spring had not forgotten after all. I sneezed under the petals and took deep breaths regardless.
Outside his favorite building in Jerusalem, he spotted it. This was the one flower that would not make me sniffle. Made of blue tissue paper and tied to a street barrier, it was waiting for someone like him to notice.I, ever the wary one, could not retire my conflict training, not even for an empty Jerusalem, not even in the orange glow. “Are you sure you should be picking up something you found in the street here?””I knew you’d say that. I knew it! My paranoid love… What, you think this is a bomb?” I laugh at myself to stop him from doing the same and he fastens the flower to my wrist like a corsage. On its wire stem, we find a note. It reads: Peace.We walk home like prom dates who left the dance before everyone else, breathing in blossoms, exhaling peace.
|Peace, at home on our windowsill|