Sometimes There’s No One To Listen To

I'm Writing Mostly To Thank You For Living You Eighty Years And To Tell You I Love You And Think Of You Often.

My Father Was Very Disappointed By War And Fighting. And He Thought Language Could Help Us Out Of Cycles Of Revenge And Animosity. And So, As A Journalist, He Always Found Himself Asking Lots Of Questions And Trying To Gather Information. He Was Always Very Clear To Underscore The Fact That Jewish People And Arab People Were Brother And Sister.

It Is Really Hard To Be Lonely Very Long In A World Of Words. Even If You Don't Have Friends Somewhere, You Still Have Language, And It Will Find You And Wrap Its Little Syllables Around You And Suddenly There Will Be A Story To Live In.

For You Who Came So Far; For You Who Held Out, Wearing A Black Scarf To Signify Grief; For You Who Believe True Love Can Find You Amidst This Atlas Of Tears Linking One Town To Its Own Memory Of Mortar, When It Was Still A Dream To Be Built And People Moved There, Believing, And Someone With Sky And Birds In His Heart Said This Would Be A Good Place For A Park.

I Think The Job Of Writing And Literature Is To Encourage Each One Of Us To Believe That We're Living In A Story.