We’re aching for what we had, pre-coronavirus, when we didn’t know how lucky we were
I’m in the guest bedroom of my daughter’s apartment in London. The glare of the clock in the darkness reads 4:02 a.m.
It’s “one of those days,” sorrow making its claim on my body — chest tight, head weighted.
“Let the year end with all its curses.” Eleven months ago, at the opening of this new year, our son, Yossi, drowned.
“Let the new year begin with all its blessings.” Ten days ago, as the year prepared to close, our daughter gave birth to a son and named him after Yossi.
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