The boxes

The hostages are coming home.

And I feel…quiet.

I don’t know why I am not jumping around, dancing, handing out candy. This is what we wanted—our raison d'être (reason for being), all our hopes, since this all started.

Maybe it’s because of the shuffling in the back of my mind. The creaks and groans of all the things I’d tucked into boxes and shoved into a corner of my subconscious. 

I even would sing a little chant to myself every time something happened.

The beautiful 6 killed. 

Put it a box and put it away

Another soldier killed, this one just before his wedding.

Put in a box and put it away

Shiri Bibas and her children.

Put it a box and put it away

A terrorist attack next to my home.

Put it a box and put it away

Survivor's guilt, and the knowledge that throughout this war, I’ve had it easy.

Put it a box and put it away

Iran is attacking with ballistic missiles.

Put it a box and put it away

On and on the chant went. And as the war continued, the boxes grew.

Stacked on one another, taller and taller, but otherwise silent. 

And now the war is hopefully ending. I understand there is finally light in this two year darkness.  Maybe it’s a miracle, or maybe it's just a phenomenon so impossible it seems to defy reality.

Good.

Great. 

Fantastic. 

But now the boxes have started making noises. They shuffle and whimper, impatient for air.

Why now? When all this anguish is so close to ending, why are the boxes beating like a pulse in my mind? 

Maybe it's fear that this will be another moment to shove into a box.

I am torn; with one hand reaching towards the light, and with one trying to keep the boxes closed. 

The entire nation is in a state of happiness and relief that will be remembered as one of the best moments in Israeli history, fueled by a palpable spark of hope.

But even though there remains so much work to be done, this hope comes with a quiet warning: maybe tomorrow, in a month from now, or years down the road, we will finally have to start opening those boxes.