Rafael Weisman

Most nights, I fall asleep with the radio on. Not for the music, but for the voices—soft anchors murmuring updates about politics, protests, rising prices, distant wars, and closer ones. I’ve always been like this. My wife says I carry the world in my chest like a stone. I’m 79 now, and it hasn’t lightened with age.

I worry about my daughter, who lives in Tel Aviv, Israel, and insists on joining every demonstration, even when the streets are tense. I worry about my grandson, who just turned 18 and got his draft notice. I worry when it rains too hard, or not at all. I worry when I hear a car slow down near our building at night. I even worry about the neighbor’s cat, who climbs the roof like it’s invincible.

Sometimes I miss the old chaos. The one we knew. We were poor, but we trusted each other more. Maybe that’s just nostalgia lying to me.

Last week, I sat at the bus stop outside the market. An argument was going on behind me—two men shouting about the government, the courts, justice, betrayal. I turned around, ready to tell them to shut up. But then a young woman stepped between them and said, calmly, “We’re all exhausted. You’re both right. And both wrong. Can we take a breath?”

It silenced them. And me.

Later, at home, I told my wife. She laughed and said, “See? Even in this mess, there are grown-ups among the children.”

Yesterday, I planted parsley on our balcony. Just a few seeds in a reused yogurt cup. Nothing fancy. But this morning, I saw the first green shoot. So small I had to squint. Still, it pushed through the dirt like it had a purpose. I watered it carefully, then turned on the radio.

The news wasn’t good. But for a moment, I didn’t worry.