Brooke: Avatiach, take 3

I know you must be getting tired of this. But tonight I took the time to finishing reworking this. It came out about 100 words longer. I am much more satisfied now, but still think this might only be reflective of a second draft. Serious writers can re-write dozens of times…I’ve heard people say writing is re-writing. It is certainly a slow, tedious process. But I rather enjoy it.

—–

Israelis eat watermelon.

During July and August—the height of the season—the streets of Israel fill up with large wooden melon carts. The carts amble slowly, unhurried, as the vendors call through crackly old megaphones in Hebrew “Avatiach! Avatiach!” — “Watermelon, Watermelon!” People leave their houses and flow into the streets, scrambling to purchase their favorite summertime fruit. Later they will serve it in a bowl, carefully cut and cubed, with nuts and tea for their guests—the perfect summertime treat.

Ami Tamir left Israel.
It was an impulsive decision. His parents were not very happy. He found love, love lived in Los Angeles, he moved and they married—all within a crazy whirlwind of a year. In LA the summer streets are filled with ice-cream trucks. Smooth and white, neat menus printed on their sides and loud tinny music springing from their speakers. At the sound, children run into the streets with pocket change to buy fudgesicles, ice cream sandwiches, strawberry milkshakes—whatever they can scrape up the money for. If they are lucky they might even buy one of those colorful Popsicles shaped like The Hulk or Spiderman. But even after relocating to the sleek LA suburbs, summer, for Ami, meant watermelon.
In LA he found no wooden melon carts ambling through the streets, or colorful open-air markets with towering piles of fresh produce. The people here, he found, spent very little time deliberating over their fruit; they had a “grab and go” mentality. But Ami still chose his fruit like he did in Israel, knocking his knuckles thoughtfully on the green-striped rind, listening carefully for the best and the ripest. He always found them and brought them home proudly to his wife and daughter. Together they ate, breakfast, dinner, mid-afternoon snack. Like a ritual Ami would cut off the best parts, saving the sweetest and juiciest for his daughter Aileen.

The day before Ami Tamir returned to his native Israel he ate watermelon with his family one last time. It was a hot day in Los Angeles, a still day. They sat together in the backyard. Fuse, the family dog, sat panting under the shade of the trampoline, chewing on watermelon rinds. Ami sat with his wife on the garden swing and watched as Aileen happily fished squares of watermelon out of the big bowl on the picnic table. Silent, stoic, he threw the rinds to Fuse, and a small wistful smile played on his lips as the dog caught them in her hungry jaws and gnawed them down to the green. “Tomorrow, I go back to Israel,” he stated quietly, testing the words out loud. “Tomorrow I leave.”
The next morning the family woke up, Ami packed his bags, together they drove the 10 minutes to the Los Angeles airport, and said their goodbyes.
“You both can come with me if you want,” Ami offered one last time, his voice was thick and clumsy in English. He had never managed to hide his accent.
Aileen shook her head. She had loved all of their summer trips to Israel, but could not envision spending the rest of her life there.
“All right,” he said in a moment. “Well, then goodbye.”
A quick hug, a wave of his hand, and he left. As impulsively as he came, he left. There were no tears, no sighs, just a silent seamless acceptance. He had never belonged in Los Angeles anyways—and who had ever believed he could stay? Not in the land of shiny white ice cream trucks and metallic, manufactured tunes. No, he belonged in Israel, with the avatiach.