He was into Bob Marley, so his parents
chose reggae as the theme. A red-, yellow- and
green-striped flag with “We Are Free”
marks the scene—a break easily missed
in the twisted road that flanks the high Galilee.
His mom offers bracelets, with “We are Free”
for the taking. He took that flag to the army.
A missile hit his tank in the Lebanon War.
We sit on lawn chairs, drink tea,
as Dad snores, sleeping off reserve duty.
Below us, olive trees, the sea,
where Jesus walked on water, in the days
before miracles died. “He loved to surf,”
Mom whispers, handing me the glossy:
a buff, black-haired boy, balanced
on the breaking crests, sky slipping
at the edge. The sea flushed pink, bleeding.