7. ziet

It was a week of loose ends. Zohar and I spent time with her friends. They made sure that I knew all the bad words that I needed to, if I were to get into a fight with an ars any time soon. Eden and Dolev and Reut. They were all going on camping trip for the weekend (Israelis were really in touch with their nature—like, they willingly just went to go climb mountains whenever the spirit moved them), so we made sure to exchange and accept various social media platforms, just to keep tabs on each other. It was a little sad saying goodbye to them, but they were only in my life temporarily because they were Zohar's friends. If they hadn't been, then we would've never met.

Jack and Ofri took Zohar and me out to dinner one night at a chain restaurant that I vaguely recognized from other spots in Israel. Ofri got all teary about how it was great having me stay with them and that if there was anything else I wanted to do over the weekend, they'd make it happen. I just tried to be as gracious as possible, because they had seriously already done so much. Jack told me that the next time I was in Israel, I shouldn't hesitate to stop by, which Ofri then amended, expressing how I better stop by the next time I was in the country.

Then the weekend came around. Nana and Shaked and Amir came back home from the army. They took me to one final mesibat yaar, and I spent all of Saturday with Shaked. (In the biblical sense). Then come Saturday night, I had to say goodbye to Amir and Shaked and Nana. Amir told me that I would forever be his "bro," and that he'd miss having me around. Shaked said that she didn't know what she'd do without me. And Nana just said that it was nice having me around, and that she couldn't wait until I came home again. They all gave me varying degrees of hugs: Amir's was one-armed and more of a pat, Shaked's included an ass grab (by her—not me), and Nana's was pure. And they left to go back to the army, to serve their country just like they were supposed to. They were gone.

Sunday was consumed by packing up my things and making sure that I had done everything that I needed to in this weird, amazing place. Once I was done stuffing my duffle, Zohar and I went for a walk around the moshav one final time. We ended up sitting on top of this hill that overlooked the olive tree orchard. And we just kind of sat there, in silence, looking out into the dimming light that cast over the old trees and their fruit.

Then Zohar was like, "Olives are my favorite of the shivat haminim."

"Remind me again what those are," I said.

"The seven species of food, I guess, that grow all around Israel: barley, wheat, pomegranate, fig, grape, honey, and olive." And then just as fast as she brought the subject up, she dropped it, switching topics in the blink of an eye: "Jesse, what does your name mean?"

"Like, as in my last name—Andrews?"

"No. What does 'Jesse' mean?"

"What do you mean? Jesse's just a name. It doesn't mean anything." I didn't really understand her question, because my name was boring and not Israeli. "Why? What does your name mean?"

"Well, it has to do with the kabbalah, which I won't confuse you with now, but it's, eh, like light and brightness."

I kind of liked that, because it seemed to hold true about Zohar. She was like this light and brightness, coming out of an unassuming silhouette of a girl who never wore tight clothing. "Does everyone's name in Hebrew mean something?"

"Almost everyone's. Amir is sort of Arabic, and it's, eh, someone who gives orders or rules." It was certainly fitting for the Amir that I knew. "Shaked is an almond—"

"An almond?"

"Yes."

"No offense to Ofri and Jack, but why in the world would they name their daughter after an almond?"

Zohar laughed. "You'd be surprised. Shaked is one of the most popular names in Israel."

"Almond. Jesus Christ. I screwed an almond..."

Zohar laughed again and then said, "What do you think Nana is?"

"Grandma?" I guessed logically.

She shook her head with a small smile. "Mint."

"Nana is mint...I kind of like that. Like, at least it's not an almond."

And that was how we stayed until it was far too late for either of us. Just looking at the barely visible olive orchard and talking about names and almonds. Then the next morning came around and we realized that we had slept outside on the grass of the hill. I saw the sunrise over the olive trees and I realized that saying goodbye to these people and this place was kind of like an olive. It was poignant and kind of bitter but full of hope that the next time would be even better. Because while my mom may have sent me to Israel for her own personal satisfaction, I was leaving with the satisfaction of my own that I could never look at the world in the same way again. Going back to Nebraska was going to pale in comparison to everything I had experienced here.

Once Zohar and I get up, we go back to the house and help Ofri and Jack load up the car with my few things. Just like when I first got picked up from the airport, Jack drives the car and Ofri has permanent dibs on shotgun. But this time, I'm not alone in the backseat, answering generic questions about my flight and about America. This time, Zohar is sitting next to me. Jack and Ofri are bilingually arguing about something having to do with Israeli politics, and Zohar and I remain quiet, watching as the desert landscape slowly washes away into suburbs and cities.

We get to the airport too quickly. Jack helps me send my duffle below and get my ticket. They walk me over to the security gate, and that is when the real goodbyes ensue. Ofri hugs me so tightly I think I'm about to pop all of my blood vessels. Jack gives me a looser hug and tells me that even though I'm from the States, it was nice having another North American around. I tell him that Canadians aren't too shabby, either, despite what I've heard. Then I get to Zohar.

I don't know what to say. Neither does she. So we don't say anything. We just hug. It's a mutual hug, unlike the one I shared with her mother and father, both of which were heavily initiated and sustained by the adults. But this one is equally as Zohar as it is I. We hug and then we have to release because I have an impending flight to JFK.

"Bye, Jesse," she says quietly.

"Bye," I return, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. I nod at Ofri and Jack one final time, and then walk away, joining the security line. Once I get my ticket stamped by a scary member of the Israeli TSA, I move on to the next step in the security process. And before I put my backpack on the conveyer belt, I look back at the Gezer family for a brief moment. Zohar catches my eye. She smiles at me and waves. I wave back.

Then I'm being ushered to move on, so I turn back and focus on the future, my mind still reeling from the past month and how unexpectedly good it turned out. I go past security and find my gate and buy some food to last me the plane ride. Then I wait until boarding is called. I get onto the plane, along with all of the other Americans. The orthodox men in their black hats. The crying babies who are going to hate this flight more than me. The teens on a summer program that are making this line move extra slowly with their antics. We're all technically going home—to the States. But as I remember what Nana said to me, it feels like we're really going away from home. Because in a way, Israel is really home.

It's hard to explain, but even though I'm not Israeli and I don't speak Hebrew, there's something about Israel that I feel connected to in a way that I never have to Nebraska. It's the people and the places and history. I know almost none of it in the grand scheme of things, yet Israel is home. That's the only way to describe it.

I take my seat next to a guy in a suit and a window. I look out the window and I wonder what would've happened had I never come to Israel and just stayed in boring old Nebraska for the summer. What if I never met these people? Zohar and Amir and Shaked and Nana and Jack and Ofri. They were my species of summer.