The cut on my finger smarts from the grapefruit. When I suck it, it feels better. Saliva disinfects. And heals. I read in a book that white scientists in Mozambique learned from village doctors to treat wounds with saliva. Once I saw Yoni’s mother sitting on her porch at the end of a blue summer day, sucking her thumb. Like Efrat. Sleep, Efrat. Mommy is here, watching you.

He’s talking in his sleep in that cave of his. Saying something like rrrrrrrr. Tia is saying rrrrrrrr too. Be quiet, Tia. It’s nothing.

What’s funny is that now the turtle has started scratching in his box. Maybe he finished the cucumber I gave him this morning and wants to leave. Don’t be afraid, little turtle. You’re as snug as a bug in a rug. And so are you, little Efrat. Because I am.

There’s a wind but no rain now. Telling us to be good. And we will be, so we can rest. It’s so cold and wet out there. And so good that we’re all in here. Except for the cypress trees bending in the wind. There’s no way for them to come in. As soon as they have straightened up, along comes the wind and forces them back down. It’s the wounded antelope again. That won’t give in till it’s reached home.

In winter we’re shut up indoors. But soon it will be summer again. Whoever wants can lie in the grass. Whoever wants can swim in the pool. And then Yoni will go to play chess in the tournament. And to serve in the army. And tell me new things when he comes back. And Zaro will write me a poem. And go into politics and become famous and important.