The Toy Store and the Tree

My dad has always wanted to open a toy store. He still talks about it, how one day he’ll open a toy store like the one he used to go to once a week to get my sister and me second-hand toys; old-school stuff we probably threw away, not knowing the value of nostalgia: bouncy things, and metal things, and springy things with peeling (poisonous?) colors. If I’m ever rich I’ll buy him a toy store where he could sit all day and experience his own childhood again, before he was made to know what religion he should follow (Orthodox Judaism), what political affiliation (Likud), who were his enemies (Palestinians), and what he should pursue in life (everything). Life was a tin soldier with arms and legs stuck to his body, and a key in his back that, when turned, made marching music.

When I was a kid my mom made me promise to buy her a tree she could sit under and enjoy her life. It had white flowers that smelled good. I’m not being over-sentimental here, remembering a conversation I had with my mom more than twenty years ago because of my shame of unfulfilled human potential. No. She actually reminds me of that conversation every once in a while. “You still haven’t gotten me that tree,” she says.

Maybe the store and the tree had become symbols of the peace my parents had always wanted but could never achieve because they were taught, like everyone else, to chase insignificant things like power and respect. But behind these things there’s a life they had wanted but will never get to live: a quiet, simple life, playing with tin soldiers and sitting under a fragrant tree with white flowers, the unattainable gifts of a grateful son.