I once met a woman at a dance club in Israel. Her name was Ora, which translated as “of the light.”

Her first language was Russian, so we spoke in Hebrew. Rudimentary Hebrew like people in an ancient world.

We danced a few songs and I asked Ora if she wanted to take a walk on the beach. She held my hand and followed me out into the balmy Tel Aviv night. We walked barefoot in the sand toward a Jovian sun setting over the Mediterranean.

I told Ora I was a medical student, and she told me she was studying to be a nurse, which in Hebrew translates into studying to be a sister.

Perhaps studying to be a sister in another religion would make the upcoming experience sacrilegious, or incestuous, but I took Ora home to my small apartment and I held her in my arms. I held her lovingly, but also facetiously, as though I was searching for the light.

 It was nothing religious, but I couldn’t help thinking I was about to make love to a sister–a nurse in training–who would someday hold aging men in her arms; men unlike me–men finally ready to die.

© Richie Smith