Though some memories may disappear like dewdrops scattered across a summertime lawn at dawn, others remain, rising unbidden from time to time.
A certain dog, for instance, has rarely left my mind.
Long ago in Beersheva, we came across a small archaeological site, really just an open rectangle in a rough, silty, makeshift parking lot, once a thriving Byzantine enclave.
It was sandwiched between the local sook and a modern supermarket reputedly built above a long-ago Roman garrison. Since no one was around, we ducked under the dig’s fence and peered in. Barely a yard below lay a rounded, Byzantine stone hearth– and the curled skeleton of a dog. Fifteen hundred years ago, a dog, like many of us nowadays, craved a warm, sweet moment of solitude.