Icarus in the Holy Land:Moments of Frailty Jennifer Tzivia MacLeod (bio) I. Crossing My mother has crossed the ocean. She has spread her wings and flown—unlike Icarus, avoiding the sun—but really, more like Odysseus, for she has spread her skirts and paddled here across the wine-dark Mediterranean Sea. And okay, yes, it was a cruise ship, because it really is the rainy season and as Odysseus discovered, the Mediterranean is too cold and stormy at this time of year for floating and paddling on one's own. And it is true that my mother is no spring chicken. Plus, the corn syrup exploded everywhere, all over her luggage, all over her cabin. I'm sure it would have attracted sharks if she'd just been paddling, hand over hand, spread out on fluttering denim fabric like a manta ray. My corn syrup. A bottle of corn syrup, a last-minute impulse, because certain things are Hard to Get here in Israel. Most things are fine, but there are some things we miss. Corn syrup that is golden yellow; breakfast cereal with the right balance of salt and malt, the two ingredients that I swear make any cereal more delicious. Her bags full of Starbucks; her bags full of Rice Krispies, which perversely they simply do not sell here. At the museum in Jaffa, relics are on display which washed ashore thousands of years ago, and I picture my mother's suitcases washing onto some Cyprus beach a few millennia from now. Encased in plastic, the coffee powder, the malty goodness of cereal, will surely survive, though perhaps not keep its delightful crispness through the ages. Then there is the corn syrup, which has not even withstood its journey across the sea. But overall, we are doing just fine. If my mother is no spring chicken, this makes me the chicken, pecking gratefully at the cereal she releases from her bags. [End Page 139] If my mother is Odysseus, what does that make me? Penelope? Indeed, I worry that I will not recognize my mother when we go to meet her at the seaport in Haifa. I worry each time that the mother in my mind is not the mother who will walk towards me; that she will have been reduced, diminished, aged beyond recognition. A beggar in rags, and we'd walk right past her, rushing, arms outstretched, towards some stranger with a neutral smile. II. Kneeling It's not every day that you cross an ocean to be with the people you love. Years ago, it would have taken forever to make the pilgrimage to this Holy Land. If you survived the journey at all, that is. You set aside a year—hope you didn't have any plans—and hopped on your horse or your donkey or your feet; whatever you had, really. If you went by foot, you'd have to stop along the way, resting, refreshing, burying your dead. If you were royalty, hopefully you had a boat, because that was the best way of all, except for storms or pirates. Then it might take only two years for the return journey. There was a strong chance, for most people, that it would be a one-way trip, the way going to Mars might be today. It's easy to imagine people's reaction when they first touched down on this holy soil after a journey like that. They'd kneel, weep, kiss the ground, thank their lucky stars, shake the captain's hand, or slip a tip into the hand of the camel driver who didn't stab them in their sleep. Here is my mother's reaction. Ready? Okay, wait for it. Here it comes. And . . . "Hi!" Okay, I'm lying; there was no exclamation mark. I have put it in because I will weep if I must take it out. Don't make me take it out. It is a line of my own blood, a dot pricked with a hatpin, because yes, my mother carries hatpins. But no, she doesn't exclaim. I was ready for almost anything, except "Hi." The dailiness of it. The barely...
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