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want to repeat ‘Time will tell.’ We walked in silence. She
was ahead of me and I followed. I picked the sticky wild
cornel leaves off her dress, crushed them and put them
mechanically into my pocket. We were more than halfway
home. In a couple of minutes we would reach the
blackberry bush. I planned to stay there for half an hour;
another half an hour and we would be home. But: Time will
tell. I smiled. Time will tell. What would time tell? That I
didn’t have the right? That I had taken on a responsibility
beyond my power? And it would be hard to overcome it?
And, really, how did I dare? I knew that everything was
doomed from the beginning. Nothing was forever. It was
only a question of time . . . How did I dare when I knew
that someday a huge meteoroid from the depths of space
could hit our fragile earth and, within seconds, send
everything to oblivion, if people hadn’t killed each other
before that? How did I dare to plant a tree when I wasn’t
sure that I could protect it from a negligent passer-by or
from the axe of a woodcutter who claimed to know his job
perfectly well? In fact, everything was clear even if you
didn’t wait. Time would never tell anything good, and every
time I said that phrase I wanted to prolong the time to give
my answer. Something like self-deception. I was hoping
that things would be better for my daughter and I wouldn’t
be responsible for my adventurous spirit and frivolous
decisions. Otherwise . . .
“Be careful, Bibi. You may hurt yourself, my sweetie. Let me
gather them for you.”