A Fairy Tale

Entering Meir Park I ran into a tiny fairy in a pink tutu. Barefoot, 3-years-old at most, the child looked up at me imploringly: “Daddy?” She had that low-pitched, gravelly voice peculiar to Israeli children that still catches me by surprise, especially when juxtaposed against such a dainty persona. “You’re looking for your Daddy,” I confirmed, just to make sure she hadn’t mistaken me for her father. “Yes,” cried the tot in frustration, her patience exhausted.

I’d seen a fellow standing outside the park entrance, cellphone at his ear, free hand rocking a baby carriage back and forth. He seemed a likely candidate: “I think that might be your daddy right outside. Go see if that’s him. If not, we’ll look some more.” She went to the entrance, peeked, shouted “Daddy!” and bounded toward him.

Yet another reminder of the way Israeli children are raised: free-spirited, surrounded by people they may never have met but are by no means strangers, people they can trust to help them find their daddy. I thought of the very young children who don’t know where their daddies are these days, the explanation of the disappearance too painful to impose on trusting innocents, yet hugged even harder by those still here. I found myself tearing up, not with sadness this time but with gratitude for the gift of being able to tell this toddler that her daddy was right there.

Fairies need parents too.