le-olam va-ed

01: קשר

le-olam va-ed

by: sophieanna

01: קשר

Dear Ben,

            קשר. Though I’m more than sure that you know what that says due to over ten years of private school education, in case you decide to be lazy and spontaneously forget all your Hebrew, it reads “kesher.” In English, that translates roughly to “connection.” Though, to me, it means “bullshit.”

            Ben, I remember the day when we first met. It was at the beginning of eighth grade, and I was the new kid at the time. I didn’t know anybody, and was too shy for my own good. It was recess, and I was just watching everyone else play and tell war stories about how terrible their camp’s food was. Then, the most attractive fourteen-year-old boy that I had ever seen came barreling towards me with a grin and a kippah. He had dark, disheveled hair and the brownest eyes filled with curiosity that I had ever seen. Tucked underneath his armpit was an orange basketball, and there was this sense of confidence about him that was so alluring to me at the time, and probably still is.

            “Hi,” you said to me, the new girl, “I’m Ben.”

            “My brother’s name is Ben,” I then replied, barely above a whisper.

            “Kesher!” you exclaimed in a somewhat sarcastic tone, followed by a laugh. I scrunched my eyebrows together, wondering why a boy such as yourself was talking to me, and what relevance the Hebrew word you had said held to our conversation. It was an error on my part at the time, for the word was a simple one, and I should’ve known it. Alas, between the nerves of it being my first day, and having the entire summer behind me of not speaking a word of Hebrew, I forgot what it meant.

            I gulped, my cheeks flaming up as I bravely asked a question to you that I knew would receive a mocking response. “Uh,” I started, staring down at my flip-flopped feet, aware that my shoe attire hadn’t been the most appropriate of choices, “what does that mean?”

            You looked at me blankly for a moment, wondering if you had heard me correctly. Then, as predicted, you began to laugh. Looking back on it now, Ben, it was probably the worst thing that you could’ve done in the situation. I was the new girl, and all of the sudden a cute boy approached me, and all I could do was embarrass myself in front of him. Sometimes you were a real jerk, Ben.

            After you had recovered from your fit of laughter at my expense, you finally answered the less than insightful question that I had asked. “Kesher. It means ‘connection.’”

            “Oh,” I mumbled, “sorry, my Hebrew’s a little rusty.”

            “Well, there’s another kesher, because so is mine!” you said, smiling so that your black and blue braces were on full display to the world. I laughed lightly, and then you took me over to where all your friends—girls and boys—were chatting and failing at basketball. You introduced me to everyone, and because I was with you, they actually gave me a chance. Even from the start, Ben, we had quite the kesher.

            Do you remember when you first asked me out? Well, how could you—or half of our high school—ever forget? It started with a kesher. We were just eating our kosher food with a table full of friends, like the good Jewish kids everyone thought we were. You were directly across from me, fellow freshmen boys on either side, and there was something in those eyes of yours that kept glancing over to me that was different than normal.

            Suddenly, you stood up from the table and then climbed on top of your chair, gaining a fair amount of attention from everyone else in the room. Your eyes connected with mine—forming a strong kesher than wasn’t being broken anytime soon. With a smirk that made my heart skip two beats, you opened that big mouth of yours that often got you into unnecessary trouble, and began a legendary speech that is still gossiped about, even in the halls today.

            “Yesh lanu kesher,” you started, staring straight into my eyes so that I knew you were speaking to me, and only me. יש לנו קשר. “We have a connection,” you then felt the need to translate into English, though I had understood what you were saying perfectly. “And since we have connection,” the edge of your lip lifted up all the more devilishly, “I was wondering if you wanted to be my girlfriend?”

            The entire room was staring at our table, speculating who you were talking to. In the process, you managed to mortify your older sister for life, and I can still hear her scolding you, and telling you to never do something so humiliating to her ever again. But, like with everything, you didn’t listen to her, Ben.

            Anyways, there I was, a freshman girl, caught in the tractor beam of your smile and eyes as you waited for me to say something. Then, completely caught off guard by the public announcement of affection you had so boldly orchestrated, I managed to squeak out a simple, “Sure,” that essentially diminished all the hype you had created, allowing the room to fall into its normal chatter once again. That was how it all began, Ben, but how did it end?

            On about our third date, you said something to me that would probably scare most girls. Somehow, though, I wasn’t scared.

            I had asked the simple yet complex question of, “How long do you think we’ll be together?”

            And you answered with the terrifying, “Le-olam, va-ed.” Forever and ever. At the time, you were probably just trying to be cute and get kissed, but it was so much more than that, Ben.

            “Why?” I wondered in regards to your bold proclamation.

            “Because of our kesher,” you said, “I think that it’s going to be le-olam va-ed.” In Hebrew, it sounded so much more pleasant than the English. If a boy had a told a girl on their third date that they were to be together “forever and ever,” she probably would’ve run as far away as possible from the said boy. But if a boy were to romanticize the thought and whip it out in Hebrew, as you did, it was easier to handle.

            Le-olam va-ed. Forever and ever. You promised, Ben. And then you broke your promise. I guess I’m writing you these letters just to try and figure out for myself where it all went wrong. You said that we had a kesher, and we did. We probably still do. All you said about the “connection” we had was a lie, though, because you never believed it for a second. Our kesher was a lie, Ben, and all because of you.

            I would end this letter with a “Love,” but that would just make things awkward, wouldn’t it, Ben? So, instead, I’ll just leave the parting salutation blank until I find a fitting one.

            -Me