In his lectures Rami told the audience that there wasn’t a minute of his waking life—not a single minute—that he did not dwell on Smadar. He knew the idea must have sounded exaggerated to his listeners—nineteen years, every minute of the day—but every now and then another parent would come along, or a brother, or an aunt, and he would look at them and recognize the grief carried within them like clocks.
