I Wish
I wish that I didn’t know the perfect place to park for Har Herzl, Israel’s national military cemetery.
I wish that I didn’t know how to weave through the rows and climb the stairs to get exactly to the section where Shilo Rauchberger is buried, along with so many of those who fell on October 7th.
I wish I didn’t look around in the October 7th burial section and see so, so many familiar faces; familiar because I knew them, because I knew about them or because I read about their heroics afterwards.
I wish I didn’t look to my right while listening to Shilo’s parents speak about him, and see the grave with the beautiful engraved drawing of the young man playing the darbuka; the grave where, last time we were there, a father was quietly playing a love song to his buried son.
I wish that I didn’t see the commemorative beer bottles, framed pictures, wedding invitations, teddy bears, children’s drawings, flags and painted rocks left on each and every grave; mementos that show a young life cut so short, and a sea of people longing for their return.
I wish that standing there didn’t bring me back to three years ago this week; to the insanity of arriving at Har Herzl only to be directed to the right location by a soldier with a list of burial locations and times that went on and on and on. That it didn’t bring me back to listening to the burial before Shilo’s, to the sobbing and agony of a family that I’d never met, to a scene that felt too personal, and yet so national.
I wish that standing there didn’t bring me back to that day when Shilo was buried, while bandaged and wheelchair-bound friends and fellow soldiers cried with eyes that had seen far, far too much.
I wish that standing there didn’t bring me back to last year, when the cemetery or the army, or whoever arranges these things, had a dozen memorial ceremonies back to back. We stood quietly for an hour listening to the pain, the grief and the longing of so many while we waited for Shilo’s turn.
I wish that Shilo’s picture didn’t make him look so young, now that his many friends have had another three years to grow, to marry, to explore and to live.
I wish that it were possible to take away his family’s pain; to remove the grief and longing that never ends.
I wish that Shilo could see his beautiful niece crawling near his grave, laughing, smiling and bringing his family so much joy through the pain.
I wish that after the azkara, when we went to my youngest son’s basketball game at the same school that his brothers and Shilo attended, that I didn’t look into each of those young, energetic, passionate faces and see Shilo.
I wish that I could rewind the years, back to when my oldest was playing on the same basketball team, back to when Shilo and all the chevre were in the stands screaming and cheering and living their beautiful lives.
I wish so many wishes. None of which can now come true.
But that doesn’t take away the wishing.
I wish.
