Happy Birthday, My Dearest Father! Comments

The table of shadows invites everybody to take a sit and tell a story.
The old Jewish house of my childhood does not exist anymore, but in my memories. Late in the heart of night, when every soul sleeps, my friend, Insomnia, opens to me old windows that in the light of day seem to be locked. I see myself, a four-year-old, running wildly between the trees of our orchard, climbing and hiding and running away from brothers, sisters and especially my mother. They always threatened me with ”lunch, dinner”, awful words, scary sentences for a four-year-old who loved climbing the trees and eating their fruits only.
I see my father, tall, dark, pale, a Poet, gathering us together, five children, and organising a poetry contest, behind the house.
There he would improvise a stage where we would recite poems, to be rewarded for the best acting ever.
...
Read full text