Thirteen Years

Thirteen years ago, to the day, a white Mazda pulled over next to a bus stop in the heart of Givatayim, a town across the river from Tel Aviv.  A young man of thirty five stepped out of the car, greeted the young lady who was standing there, and opened the car door for her.  When she was seated, he shut the door and walked around to the driver seat.  They agreed to go to a cafe, in north Tel Aviv for their first date.  He ordered a poppy seed cake with a ball of vanilla ice cream, and she ordered a salad.  Two hours later, the man explained that there was a family gathering he had to attend.  He drove the woman home, and promised to call.

He didn’t.  There was some unfinished business he had to take care of before the call could be made.  But when it was made, three weeks later, both felt that this was what they were waiting for very long time.

The man was recovering from a failed marriage.  He had two small girls, one was barely six years old, the other not even one.  He spent many years in a foreign country, from which he returned with excellent education and great working experience, but a clean bank account.  He was broke, living with his parents, starting a new job, trying to rebuild his life.  The woman saw through that.  In fact she saw in him what he wasn’t able to see at all.  She saw a young, determined, brilliant guy with a bright future.  She wanted to be part of that future.  They moved in together shortly after they met, and got married not too long after his divorce was finalized.

The man is me.  The woman is my wife Dorit.  Thirteen years, three continents, two children and thirty five kilos later ( on my side), we are still together, very much so, and I am still wondering what have I done to deserve her.

Thirteen years, Dorit.  I know I thank my lucky stars for sending you my way.