שאלת הסקה: מה זה?

Every Friday at noon, Yael takes the bus from Haifa to her grandfather's small flat in Kiryat Tivon. Since her grandmother died last winter, he has lived there alone. "I'm fine," he always tells the family on the phone. "I have my books, my radio and my garden. What else does a man need?"

This Friday, the bus was late, and Yael arrived almost an hour after twelve. Her grandfather opened the door before she could knock. He was wearing his best blue shirt, the one he usually kept for holidays. On the kitchen table there were two cups, a plate of cookies and a cake that he had clearly baked himself. The tea in the cups was already cold.

"Oh, you're here," he said, looking at his watch. "I didn't notice the time. I was busy with the garden." But his hands were clean, and the newspaper on the chair was still folded. Nobody had opened it.

They talked for three hours. He asked about her studies, her friends and her plans for the army. He laughed at all her stories, even the ones that were not very funny. When she told him about her bagrut exams, he went to the shelf and took down an old English dictionary. "This was mine when I was your age," he said. "Take it. I don't need it any more."

At six o'clock Yael put on her coat. Her grandfather walked her to the bus stop, although it was raining a little. He stood there and waved until the bus turned the corner.

On the way home, Yael opened the dictionary. On the first page, in his neat writing, he had written her name and the date — last Tuesday. She looked out of the window for a long time. Then she took out her phone and wrote to her mother: "I think I'll visit Grandpa on Tuesdays too."

Every Friday at noon, Yael takes the bus from Haifa to her grandfather's small flat in Kiryat Tivon. Since her grandmother died last winter, he has lived there alone. "I'm fine," he always tells the family on the phone. "I have my books, my radio and my garden. What else does a man need?"

This Friday, the bus was late, and Yael arrived almost an hour after twelve. Her grandfather opened the door before she could knock. He was wearing his best blue shirt, the one he usually kept for holidays. On the kitchen table there were two cups, a plate of cookies and a cake that he had clearly baked himself. The tea in the cups was already cold.

"Oh, you're here," he said, looking at his watch. "I didn't notice the time. I was busy with the garden." But his hands were clean, and the newspaper on the chair was still folded. Nobody had opened it.

They talked for three hours. He asked about her studies, her friends and her plans for the army. He laughed at all her stories, even the ones that were not very funny. When she told him about her bagrut exams, he went to the shelf and took down an old English dictionary. "This was mine when I was your age," he said. "Take it. I don't need it any more."

At six o'clock Yael put on her coat. Her grandfather walked her to the bus stop, although it was raining a little. He stood there and waved until the bus turned the corner.

On the way home, Yael opened the dictionary. On the first page, in his neat writing, he had written her name and the date — last Tuesday. She looked out of the window for a long time. Then she took out her phone and wrote to her mother: "I think I'll visit Grandpa on Tuesdays too."

Every Friday at noon, Yael takes the bus from Haifa to her grandfather's small flat in Kiryat Tivon. Since her grandmother died last winter, he has lived there alone. "I'm fine," he always tells the family on the phone. "I have my books, my radio and my garden. What else does a man need?"

This Friday, the bus was late, and Yael arrived almost an hour after twelve. Her grandfather opened the door before she could knock. He was wearing his best blue shirt, the one he usually kept for holidays. On the kitchen table there were two cups, a plate of cookies and a cake that he had clearly baked himself. The tea in the cups was already cold.

"Oh, you're here," he said, looking at his watch. "I didn't notice the time. I was busy with the garden." But his hands were clean, and the newspaper on the chair was still folded. Nobody had opened it.

They talked for three hours. He asked about her studies, her friends and her plans for the army. He laughed at all her stories, even the ones that were not very funny. When she told him about her bagrut exams, he went to the shelf and took down an old English dictionary. "This was mine when I was your age," he said. "Take it. I don't need it any more."

At six o'clock Yael put on her coat. Her grandfather walked her to the bus stop, although it was raining a little. He stood there and waved until the bus turned the corner.

On the way home, Yael opened the dictionary. On the first page, in his neat writing, he had written her name and the date — last Tuesday. She looked out of the window for a long time. Then she took out her phone and wrote to her mother: "I think I'll visit Grandpa on Tuesdays too."