Leah wanted to . . . No, she no longer wanted anything. In those moments there is nothing more for a person to want, not blaming anyone anymore and not asking anybody for anything.
But you looked at us, Mom, and could not help. For the first time in so many years, you could not help us, didn’t even lift a finger.
My son lay on my wife’s stomach, raising his head with wet hair which was stuck together. He was also yelling. It was a scream of rebellion and joy. It was a demanding scream. A new person was born, had left heaven and had separated from the bliss of a mother’s warmth forever. How peaceful and good it was inside the womb of the Universe! But he was banished from heaven. Now he was demanding a place for himself on Earth; he needed space to move, air to breathe, and heat for warmth.
The nurse skillfully wrapped the child in a sheet and gave him to me to carry to the scale for weighing. I took my son in my arms and the floor moved under my feet.
After three days we brought him home from the hospital. The pine trees by our house were lightly powdered in December snow. A strong wind blew. As we came out of the car, I carried my son wrapped in a thin white sheet. Waking up after a long ride in the warm car, he opened his little mouth and again started to let out a disgruntled and demanding scream.
You, mom, were waiting for us at home. When we came in with our son in our hands, you clapped your hands and jumped for joy. You, mom, were still a child yourself. Happiness was an unexpected guest for you and you never waited for it. But when this guest arrived, you reacted in the simplest way, like children do, by clapping their hands and jumping up and down.
That was the way you rejoiced for my son, your grandson. You took him in your arms and said that we could have frozen him in such a thin sheet. “How can you do this?! He is cold! Now his stomach hurts.”