The Wedding March

I 

t’s just a week into the new school year

as I walk my little one to kindergarten. For him, the routine is still unfamiliar and the school building intimidating. So I hold his hand and do my best to smooth the way.

It’s hot outside but there’s a faint breeze, a promise that the blazing heat of this unforgiving summer will end sometime soon. (Will it? Will we ever again feel the caress of good times, the confidence of being in the good graces of our Maker?)

My little one chatters about the cars, cats, and birds as we make our way up the hill. He delights in the pomegranate tree laden with fruit, a crown studding each swollen specimen. I’m not as impressed. These pomegranates aren’t deep burgundy. They’re barely even red — more like a weak green with the palest pink overlay. Will they be ready in time for Rosh Hashanah? (Will we? We have a lot of ripening to do, we realized that all too well this year.)