Tzeela

She told her children she’d be back soon.
She had packed the bag.
She had felt the stirrings.

This was the day.

She was tired, but smiling.
She always smiled.
Even through the ache.

Her husband drove.
They knew the road.
They had taken it before.

She closed her eyes and breathed.

There was a sound.
A moment that split the world.

She was still.
But still breathing.
Still hoping.

At the hospital, they worked in silence.
The baby came out first.
She did not follow.

She had spent her life listening.
Helping others through sorrow.
Teaching them how to find calm,
how to hold on.

She once wrote:
“Even a small smile is spreading light.”

Now the light has gone out.

Some will call her a settler.
As if that makes her less dead.
As if that makes her baby less motherless.

But her name was Tzeela.
She was thirty.
She was loved.
She was real.

And she is gone.

צאלה

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