Can life drawing to its end be meaningful, even creative? I am Going to Die, He said is a story of life magnified by love, and although the title suggests a life drawing to its end, the story articulates an unquenchable thirst for life. The struggles and requited longing are expressed in words devoid of sentimentality, pulsating with emotion’s own rhythms. In spite of the story’s intimate character, this too, like all the works by Rebecca Rass, transcends the private to achieve the universal. Rich with cultural echoes, this love story embraces ancient myths of death and rebirth. I am Going to Die, He said is the winner of ACUM prize 2009 for a manuscript submitted anonymously: “It constitutes of prose poems bidding farewell to a lover and soul-mate who is no longer alive. In a way, it is a journey to the past, to the different stops along the way, and finally to the awareness that time is running out. But this is also a journey to the future, to time after death, to time of acceptance and of discovering the missing lover in the renewed beauty of the world.”

1. Winner of ACUM prize for 2009
Presentation design
Sarit Shatz

2. I am Going to Die, He said is a story of life magnified by
love, and although the title suggests a life drawing to its
end, the story articulates an unquenchable thirst for life. The
struggles and requited longing are expressed in words devoid
of sentimentality, pulsating with emotion’s own rhythms.
In spite of the story’s intimate character, this too, like all the
works by Rebecca Rass, transcends the private to achieve the
universal. Rich with cultural echoes, this love story embraces
ancient myths of death and rebirth.
I am Going to Die, He said was awarded the ACUM prize
for a manuscript submitted anonymously:
“It constitutes of prose poems bidding farewell to a lover and
soul-mate who is no longer alive. In a way, it is a journey to
the past, to the different stops along the way, and finally to
the awareness that time is running out. But this is also a
journey to the future, to time after death, to time of
acceptance and of discovering the missing lover in the
renewed beauty of the world.”
This presentation present chapter 26.

3. No, you couldn’t have chosen a more poetic place to rest.
You couldn’t have chosen
a more inspiring place
to join the earth and
the landscape you so loved,
you couldn’t have chosen a more romantic home
for us to meet.

4. Was it just last year that you said, at the beginning
of the second cycle of chemo, while eating lunch
at the kitchen table, chicken cutlet and French fries,
your favorite -- you were still able to eat then -
Would you mind, you had begun so casually,
would you mind if I buy me,
in the small village, where we loved to stay
at the old little house with the blue blinds
and the ancient olive tree in the yard,
there, by the foot of Mount Tabor --
a resting plot?

5. No, you couldn’t have chosen a more poetic
spot on the soft slope of this tree-shaded hill
or a more mild sunny day in mid-spring
to unite with the earth -
accompanied by the piercing sound of a single trumpet,
a lonely lament bursting out across the expansive vistas,
carrying your song –

6. when you wrote it, years ago,
did you have your funeral in mind? --
Your music soars now across green wheat fields
and undulating pastures, riding up the rocky slopes
of the Tabor Mountain
Can you hear it? Listen.
It’s the trumpet singing your song, tearing the sun-drenched land
with your chant of yearning, embracing us, those still-living,
and those who-once-were, joining the dead
and the living now clustered at the gray granite Galilee rock
that marks your dwelling in the serene,
century-old grave-yard, enshrouded in trees and flowers,
as we listen to your heart singing

7. Listen!
how it takes flight, how it spreads its wings,
how it floats over flower-carpeted fields,
how it embraces the granite rocks of the Galilee,
how it soars toward the mountain peaks
to celebrate the splendor of the universe.

8. Listen
as one by one, each one of the three
hundred sixty-five days,
rolls by on millions of tiny wheels.
On that last Friday, there was deep silence.
We walked on tiptoes.
You had already stopped asking questions,
You did not protest. You didn’t say a word.
You were quiet, already existing in a different world,
out of reach for us.
You waited for Friday night
and you left,
in complete silence.

9. In the darkness I stretch my hand
To the other side of the bed.
It’s full of you
who is absent.

10. Rebecca Rass, born in Israel, lives in New York and Tel Aviv.
She teaches English at Pace University in New York and runs
creative writing workshops in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. Her
books, fiction, nonfiction and poetry were published in New
York, Tel Aviv, Amsterdam, Switzerland and Madrid. Her
articles and features on the arts, literature and theater, were
published in dailies and magazines in Israel, Holland, Norway
and the USA. Her Book-Sculptures were exhibited in one-
person shows in New York, Tel Aviv, and Amsterdam. She was
awarded the Prime-Minister prize for literature in 2001, and
twice the ACUM prize for anonymous work in 1995 and 2009.
Rebecca Rass site
rebeccarass.com
For responses
rebeccarass@gmail.com