When I moved next to A., he had lost his wife for a couple of years and was still adjusting to life without her.
Every Friday, his neighbour and good friend would come to celebrate Shabbat with him and honour
his wife's memory, until she couldn't.
When they can, his relatives visit from abroad.
When I can, I listen to his love story, his war memories, his world adventures,
his theories on linguistics, geopolitics or theology, a poem.
to more Fridays dear A.
Myriam, Sarah, Malika, Fatima or whatever my name is.