Alijah

I was born a Kabalist, or so I thought, in that far north jewel called Safad. I was born a twin in what was the last vestige of a Turkish hospital. As a child I had visions of the prophet alijah on his yearly Passover pilgrimages. He always stopped to rest on my bed. I remember him sitting there with his long white beard tumbling down to the floor. He looked tired and weary from his long journey, but his warmth was always a great comfort to me, even though at times he looked scary. But a Kabalist, I am not, and the visions of Alijah have long gone. But here in this rather forlorn place, where history is more pronounced than the present, I find myself once again reflecting and wondering about those mysteries of the past, which have never left me.