Etgar Keret is an international treasure. But you probably already knew that. Here’s a bit of his latest for the New Yorker about rockets, coping, and playing games with his son.
And then we hear the boom. Loud, but far away. We stay lying one on top of the other, without moving, for a long time. My arms are starting to hurt from carrying my weight. From the corner of my eye, I can see other drivers who’ve been lying on the highway get up and brush the dirt off their clothes. I stand up, too.
“Lie down,” Lev tells me, “lie down, Daddy. You’re ruining the sandwich.”
I lie down for another minute, and say, “O.K., game’s over. We won.”
“But it’s nice,” Lev says. “Let’s stay like this a little more.”
We stay like that a few seconds longer. Mommy on the bottom, Daddy on the top, and in the middle, Lev and a few red ants. When we finally get up, Lev asks where the rocket is. I point in the direction the explosion came from. “It sounded like it exploded not far from our house,” I say.
“Oof,” Lev says, disappointed, “now Lahav will probably find a piece again. Yesterday, he came to school with a piece of iron from the last rocket, and it had the symbol of the company on it and the name in Arabic. Why did it have to explode so far away?”
The rest is worth your time.