Ariel Abarbanel - Shin Dalet Id. Prose of Jewish life

Then, after some time, one could already distinguish the emerging thistle, a bush that took the shape of a nettle, a frail aspen. One tree remained unrecognized.

From the very beginning, they tried to push this plant incomprehensible to others, to block it from the life-giving light.

The thistle pricked with thorns, other plants burned, cast a shadow, strangled the young shoot with their roots. But the tree continued to live.

Thin and dusty, it reached for the light, greedily grabbing the rare rays of the sun.

It was unsightly: some branches were broken off by passers-by and the wind, some leaves, not having time to straighten out, wilted, the bark cracked from lack of moisture.

But here's a miracle: that incomprehensible force that sat in the seed, pushed and pushed the growth of the tree up to the sun.

It was changing all the time: it seemed like an unnecessary shrub, then, releasing fresh green leaves again, pleased the eye.

The gardener has already lost interest in all of his plantings. I forgot about them and even stopped watering.

But all the same force forced the tree to stretch upward, it swallowed drops of rain, exposing the leaves to the wind. Stretched towards the longed-for sun.

Almost nothing remained around from the former neighbors: dried stalks and scraps of yellow-brown grass.

One day an old man walked past the courtyard and was stunned: a thin and flexible tall tree stood alone and proudly. It grew so that the upper leaves shimmered like an emerald in the sun; birds sat on the branches and sang the hymn of life. Its branches became so strong that the wind no longer broke them, but only played with them as equals.

The old man wiped away a tear and thought that, perhaps, this is a good gift for both his labors and his old age.

He thought about a seed the size of a speck of dust, and about what power of life can grow that will break out of the darkness of stones and, despite the gray, grave environment, will live for the sake of the sun and light for the sake of warm life-giving rays.

Live for the light, wherever you were, the gardener thought, live for the light.

Once upon a time there were two doves. Mother and daughter. Beila and Rosette. They lived alone. Rosette's father, a beautiful, dove, once got on a huge ocean liner, which transported him to another country, to the other end of the globe, and he never managed to return from there. He found himself another dove and lived with her in peace and happiness. From this love they had a cute little bird girl. So they lived in a huge new city called New Amsterdam.

And Rosette stayed with her mother in her two years. Mom loved her Rose very much. In tides of love, she hugged her with her wings and kissed her with her beak. She kissed so passionately that these manifestations of maternal love left scratches, abrasions, bruises, torn feathers. Rosette loved her mother very much, but she suffered without a father. After passing the chick period and becoming a teenager, her longing for her father became so unbearable that she went to him across the ocean.

She lived with her father for many years. She learned the language of that country well, but did not receive the desired and such longed-for warmth. Most of her dear father's love went to her little sister. Rosette's heart was drawn more and more back to her mother, and she began to gather back on the long journey across the ocean.

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