Last Thursday, at 10 in the morning, I learned that the accumious society of authors, composers and music editors of Israel) had awarded the award for the trajectory of a lifetime. “The trajectory of a lifetime? If you have not yet fulfilled the 60s!” My wife told me, “don’t you think it’s uncommon?” “I guess yes,” I replied, “but we better not talk much about it, it will not be to take the prize.”
Seventeen hours later, when I woke up and learned that Israel had bombarded Natanz’s Iranian nuclear complex and at any time Iran was going to start throwing missiles against Tel Aviv, the idea of receiving as soon as an award for the trajectory of a lifetime seemed a little less absurd. After all, you never know when a ballistic missile will decide that the time has come to paralyze your activities. And there we were again, Shira and I, sitting on the ladder of our building, which has no anti -aircraft refuge, paying attention to explosions and trying to remember better times. Some times when, instead of waiting passively to the rocket from the stratosphere, we had the initiative and we came up with creative things to discuss: the proper way of loading the dishwasher, how to educate our child and what temperature to put the air conditioning. Some times in which to make peace depended on us, not on Netanyahu or Trump.
