At 18 years old, Meir joined the IDF Infantry, following the Six Day War, in September of 1967, was killed at an ambush outside of Jericho in late November, the same year.  

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 Meir’ke, as he was known, was my best friend during our four years at the Geulah High School in Tel Aviv.  He was one of my “people”– Zvi’ka, Meir’ke and me.  We were like triplets, born to three different mothers, who were inseparable.  We spent every waking moment together; it was unimaginable that we could do anything, independently of each other.

 

 Meir’ke was the “Joker” – everything made him laugh, his laughter was loud and infectious.  The bookish glasses he wore, would slide down his nose and his unruly mop of hair covered his entire face, as the three of us would roll with laughter.   

 

 He was the first to join the army, Zvi’ka joined in October and I was last in December.  We had collective plans for the future, as it was not clear what each of us would do, following the military service.  We planned that eventually I was going to marry one of them, did not matter who, and then another lovely girl would join us and marry the other, and we would live together for the rest of our lives.

 

 Each of our mothers concluded that Meir’ke would be the tallest – he was killed before he got to be as tall as he should have been, before he got to shave, before ever loving a woman.  He left us stunned with a loss, which had no space for containment, reconciliation or understanding.  We were practically children, unable to understand how that finality was possible at a time when life looked so infinite, young and new.  We learned that mourning for falling soldiers, is not defined by time, it is a scab that forms over time, but peels and exposes the raw wound, every year during Yom Hazikaron.