Through the open crack in my window, there’s a heartrending cry. “Mommyyyyyyyy!”
It’s only once the days settle into some sort of hum, that they worm their way into my conscious.
I’m standing at the kitchen counter, cooking, breathing in the magic of Yerushalayim, when my ears pick up on it. It stands out from the humdrum of daily life in the city and sounds very much like it’s coming through a microphone. It crackles in and out, a solemn voice droning on and on.
Some sort of lecture? I don’t think much about it. Yerushalayim is the holiest city on earth. They probably give public shiurim in the streets!
A few days later, a biting cold and pouring rain descend upon the city. A heavy fog covers the view from my kitchen window, and I can barely make out the white stone buildings in the far distance. The storm brings darkness early in the afternoon when I hear it again.
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